THE 

TO  ADVENTURE 

Walpole 


KX     TJRPJ5J. 

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ANNE   DILLON 


nd  Dickens  had 
been  not  unlike 


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ideals  and  s< 
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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Helen  A.  Dillon 


to  the 
r,  large 
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ith  an 


equally 
If  Poe 
tten  it, 
ke  the 


{If  HUGH   \  ything 

JJ  that  comes  irom  nis  pen  is  01  me  Keenest  liter- 
ary significance.  His  stories  are  planned  with 
the  height  and  symmetry  of  Greek  Tragedies.  Here 
he  reveals,  from  a  different  angle,  a  new  glimpse  of 
his  brooding  genius  and  dominating  personality. 


THE    PRELUDE 
TO  ADVENTURE 

HUGH    WALPOLE 


NOVELS  BY  HUGH  WALPOLE 

STUDIES  IN  PLACE 
THE  WOODEN  HORSE 
MARADICK  AT  FORTY 
THE  GODS  AND  MR.  PERRIN 

TWO  PROLOGUES 

THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 
FORTITUDE 

THE  RISING  CITY 

1.  THE  DUCHESS  OF  WREXE 

2.  THE  GREEN  MIRROR 

(7n  preparation) 


THE 

PRELUDE  TO 
ADVENTURE 


BY 

HUGH  WALPOLE 

Author  of  "  Fortitude,"  "The  Wooden  Horse,' 
"The  Duchess  of  Wrexe,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


College 
Library 


PR 


To  MY  FRIEND, 
R.    A*    STREATFIELD 


JLC6O3 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I  LAST  CHAPTER           •••••! 

II  BUNNINQ            ......        19 

HI  THE  BODY  COMES  TO  TOWN      .         .         .39 

IV  MARGARET  CBAVEN   .....       68 

V  STONE  AI/TABS           •         •         •         .         .       78 

VI  THE  WATCHERS         a         .         .         .         .       98 

VII    TERROR 119 

VIII  REVELATION  OF  BUNNINQ.     I     .         .         .131 

IX  REVELATION  or  BUNNING.    II  .         .         .161 

X  CRAVEN    .......     172 

XI  FIFTH  OF  NOVEMBER          .         .         .         .188 

XII  LOVE  TO  THE  "  VALSE  TRISTE  "         .         .211 

XHI    MRS.  CRAVEN 227 

XIV    GOD 243 

XV  PRELUDE  TO  A  JOURNEY  .         .         .         .271 

XVI  OLVA  AND  MARGARET        .         •         •         •     290 
XVII  FIRST  CHAPTER.                            .         .              309 


vfl 


THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 


OHAPTEB   I 

LAST  OHAPTEB 

1 

is  a  God  after  all."    That  was 
•*•       the  immense  conviction  that  faced  him 
as  he  heard,  slowly,  softly,  the  leaves,  the  twigs, 
settle  themselves  after  that  first  horrid  crash 
that  the  clumsy  body  had  made. 

Olva  Dnne  stood  for  an  instant  straight  and 
stiff,  his  arms  heavily  at  his  side,  and  the 
dank,  misty  wood  slipped  back  once  more  into 
silence.  There  was  about  him  now  the  most 
absolute  stillness :  some  trees  dripped  in  the 
mist ;  far  above  him,  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  the 
little  path  showed  darkly — below  him,  in  the 
hollow,  black  masses  of  fern  and  weed  lay 
heavily  under  the  chill  November  air — at  his 
feet  there  was  the  body. 

In  that  sudden  after  silence  he  had  known 
beyond  any  question  that  might  ever  again  arise, 
that  there  was  now  a  God — God  had  watched 
himt 


2       THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUKE 

With  grave  eyes,  with  hands  that  did  not 
tremble,  he  surveyed  and  then,  bending,  touched 
the  body.  He  knelt  in  the  damp,  heavy  soil, 
tore  open  the  waistcoat,  the  shirt ;  the  flesh  was 
yet  warm  to  his  touch — the  heart  was  still. 
Carfax  was  dead. 

It  had  happened  so  instantly.  First  that 
great  hulking  figure  in  front  of  him,  the  sneering 
laugh,  that  last  sentence,  "  Let  her  rot  .  .  . 
my  dear  Dune,  your  chivalry  does  you  credit." 
Then  that  black,  blinding,  surging  rage  and  the 
blow  that  followed.  He  did  not  know  what  he 
had  intended  to  do.  It  did  not  matter — only 
in  the  force  that  there  had  been  in  his  arm  there 
had  been  the  accumulated  hatred  of  years, 
hatred  that  dated  from  that  first  term  at  school 
thirteen  years  ago  when  he  had  known  Carfax 
for  the  dirty  hypocrite  that  he  was.  He  could 
not  stay  now  to  think  of  the  many  things  that 
had  led  to  this  tremendous  climax.  He  only 
knew  that  as  he  raised  himself  again  from  the 
body  there  was  with  him  no  feeling  of  repentance, 
no  suggestion  of  fear,  only  a  grim  satisfaction 
that  he  had  struck  so  hard,  and,  above  all, 
that  lightning  certainty  that  he  had  had  of 
God. 


LAST   CHAPTER  3 

His  brain  was  entirely  alert.  He  did  not 
doubt,  as  he  stood  there,  that  he  would  be 
caught  and  delivered  and  hanged.  He,  him- 
self, would  take  no  steps  to  prevent  such  a 
catastrophe.  He  would  leave  the  body  there 
as  it  was :  to-night,  to-morrow  they  would 
find  it — the  rest  would  follow.  He  was,  indeed, 
acutely  interested  in  his  own  sensations.  Why 
was  it  that  he  felt  no  fear  ?  Where  was  the  terror 
that  followed,  as  he  had  so  often  heard,  upon 
murder  f  Why  was  it  that  the  dominant 
feeling  in  him  should  be  that  at  last  he  had 
justified  his  existence  ?  In  that  furious  blow 
there  had  leapt  within  him  the  creature  that 
he  had  always  been — the  creature  subdued, 
restrained,  but  always  there — there  through 
all  this  civilized  existence ;  the  creature  that 
his  father  was,  that  his  grandfather,  that  all 
his  ancestors,  had  been. 

He  looked  down.  The  hulking  body  that 
had  been  Carfax  had  made  a  hollow  in  the  wet 
and  broken  fern.  The  face  was  white,  stupid, 
the  cheeks  hanging  fat,  horrible,  the  eyes  star- 
ing. One  leg  was  twisted  beneath  the  body. 
Still  in  the  air  there  seemed  to  linger  that 
startled  little  cry — "  Oh  !  " — surprise,  wonder — 


4       THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVEBTTUBE 

and  then  fading  miserably  into  nothing  as  the 
great  body  fell. 

Such  a  huge  hulking  brute;  now  so  sordid 
and  useless,  looking  -  at  last,  after  all  these 
years,  the  thing  that  it  ought  always  to  have 
looked.  Some  money  had  rolled  from  the 
pocket  and  lay  shining  amongst  the  fern.  A 
gold  ring  glittered  on  the  white  finger,  seeming 
in  the  heart  of  that  dripping  silence  the  only 
living  note. 

Then  Olva  remembered  his  dog — where  was 
he  ?  He  turned  and  saw  the  fox  terrier  down 
on  all  fours  amongst  the  fern,  motionless,  his 
tongue  out,  his  eyes  gazing  with  animal  inquiry 
at  his  master.  The  dog  was  waiting  for  the 
order  to  continue  the  walk.  He  seemed,  in 
his  passivity,  merely  to  be  resting,  a  little 
exhausted  perhaps  by  the  heavy  closeness  of 
the  day,  too  indolent  to  nose  amongst  the 
leaves  for  possible  adventure :  Olva  looked  at 
him.  The  dog  caught  the  look  and  beat  the 
grass  with  his  tail,  soft,  friendly  taps  to  show 
that  he  only  waited  for  orders.  Then  still 
idly,  still  with  that  air  of  gentle  amusement, 
the  dog  gazed  at  the  thing  in  the  grass.  He 
rose  slowly  and  very  delicately  advanced  a  few 


LAST   OHAPTEB  5 

steps :  for  an  instant  some  fear  seemed  to 
strike  his  heart  for  he  stopped  suddenly  and 
gazed  into  his  master's  face  for  reassurance. 
What  he  saw  there  comforted  him.  Again 
he  wagged  his  tail  placidly  and  half  closed 
his  eyes  in  sleepy  indifference. 

Then  Olva,  without  another  backward  glance, 
left  the  hollow,  crashed  through  the  fern  up  the 
hill  and  struck  the  little  brown  path.  Bunker, 
the  dog,  pattered  patiently  behind  him. 

2 

Olva  Dune  was  twenty-three  years  of  age. 
He  was  of  Spanish  descent,  and  it  was  only 
within  the  last  two  generations  that  English 
blood  had  mingled  with  the  Dune  stock.  He 
was  of  no  great  height,  slim  and  dark.  His 
hair  was  of  the  deepest  black,  his  complexion 
sallow,  and  on  his  upper  lip  he  wore  a  small 
dark  moustache.  His  ears  were  small  and 
beautiful,  his  mouth  thin,  ironical,  sometimes 
cruel,  his  chin  sharply  pointed,  but  his  eyes, 
very  large,  dark  brown,  and  fringed  with  enor- 
mous black  eyelashes,  were  by  far  his  most 
remarkable  feature.  They  were  eyes  that 
looked  as  though  they  held  in  their  depths  the 


6       THE  PEELUDE  TO  AD  YEN  TUBE 

possibility  of  great  tenderness,  but  no  one, 
except  Olva's  mother,  had  ever  seen  that 
softness.  He  walked  as  an  athlete,  there  was 
no  spare  flesh  about  him  anywhere,  and  in  his 
carriage  there  was  a  dignity  that  had  in  it 
pride  of  birth,  complete  self-possession,  and 
above  all,  contempt  for  his  fellow-creatures. 

He  despised  all  the  world  save  only  his  father. 
He  had  gone  through  his  school-life  and  was 
now  passing  through  his  college-life  as  a  man 
travels  through  a  country  that  has  for  him 
no  interest  and  no  worth  but  that  may  lead, 
once  it  has  been  traversed,  to  something  of 
importance  and  adventure.  He  was  now  at 
the  beginning  of  his  second  year  at  Cambridge 
and  was  regarded  by  every  one  with  distrust, 
admiration,  excitement.  His  was  by  far  the 
most  interesting  personality  at  that  time  in 
residence  at  Saul's — the  college  that  he  honoured 
with  his  presence. 

He  had  come  with  a  historical  scholarship 
and  a  great  reputation  as  a  Three-quarter  from 
Harrow.  He  was  considered  to  be  a  certain 
First  Class  and  a  certain  Eugby  Blue ;  he, 
lazily  and  indifferently  during  the  course  of  his 
first  term,  discouraged  both  these  anticipations. 


LAST    CHAPTEE  7 

He  attended  no  lectures,  received  a  Third 
Class  in  Ms  May  examinations,  and  was  de- 
prived of  his  scholarship  at  the  end  of  his  first 
year.  He  played  brilliantly  in  the  Fresh- 
men's Eugby  match  and  so  indolently  in  the 
first  University  match  of  the  season  that  he  was 
not  invited  again.  Had  he  played  merely 
badly  he  would  have  been  given  a  second  trial, 
but  his  superior  insolence  was  considered  in- 
sulting. He  never  played  in  any  College 
matches  nor  did  he  trouble  to  watch  any 
of  their  glorious  conflicts.  Once  and  again  he 
produced  an  Essay  for  his  Tutor  that  astonished 
that  gentleman  very  considerably,  but  when 
called  before  the  Dean  for  neglecting  to  attend 
lectures  explained  that  he  was  studying  the 
Later  Boman  Empire  and  could  not  possibly 
attend  to  more  than  one  thing  at  a  time. 

He  was  perfectly  friendly  to  every  one,  and  it 
was  curious  that,  with  his  air  of  contempt  for 
the  world  in  general,  he  had  made  no  enemies. 
He  wondered  at  that  himself,  on  occasions ; 
he  had  always  been  supposed,  for  instance,  to 
be  very  good  friends  with  Carfax.  He  had,  of 
course,  always  hated  Carfax — and  now  Carfax 
was  dead. 


8       THE  PBELTJDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

The  little  crooked  path  soon  left  the  dark 
wood  and  merged  into  the  long  white  Cam- 
bridge road.  The  flat  country  was  veiled 
in  mist,  only,  like  a  lantern  above  a  stone  wall, 
the  snn  was  red  over  the  lower  veils  of  white 
that  rose  from  the  sodden  fields.  Some  trees 
started  like  spies  along  the  road.  Overhead, 
where  the  mists  were  faint,  the  sky  showed 
the  faintest  of  pale  blue.  The  long  road  rang 
under  Olva's  step — it  would  be  a  frosty  night. 

When  the  little  wood  was  now  a  black  ball 
in  the  mist  Olva  was  suddenly  sick.  He  leant 
against  one  of  the  dark  mysterious  trees  and 
was  wretchedly,  horribly  ill.  Slowly,  then, 
the  colour  came  back  to  his  cheeks,  his  hands 
were  once  more  steady,  he  could  see  again 
clearly.  He  addressed  the  strange  world  about 
him,  the  long  flat  fields,  the  hard  white  road, 
the  orange  sun.  "  That  is  the  last  time,"  he 
said  aloud,  "  the  last  weakness." 

He  definitely  braced  himself  to  face  life. 
There  would  not  be  much  of  it — to-morrow  he 
would  be  arrested  :  meanwhile  there  should  be  no 
more  of  these  illusions.  There  was,  for  instance, 
the  illusion  that  the  body  was  following  him, 
bounding  grotesquely  along  the  hard  road.  He 


LAST   OHAPTEB  9 

knew  that  again  and  again  he  turned  his  head 
to  see  whether  anything  were  there,  and  the 
further  the  little  wood  was  left  behind  the  nearer 
did  the  body  seem  to  be.  He  must  not  allow 
himself  to  think  these  things.  Carfax  was 
dead — Carfax  was  dead — Carfax  was  dead.  It 
was  a  good  thing  that  Carfax  was  dead.  He  had 
saved,  he  hoped,  Eose  Midgett — that  at  any 
rate  he  had  done  ;  it  was  a  good  thing  for  Eose 
Midgett  that  he  had  killed  Carfax.  He  had, 
incidentally,  no  interest  on  his  own  account  in 
Eose  Midgett — he  scarcely  knew  her  by  sight — 
but  it  was  pleasant  to  think  that  she  would  be 
no  longer  worried.  .  .  . 

Then  there  was  that  question  about  God. 
Now  the  river  appeared,  darkly,  dimly  below 
the  road,  the  reeds  rising  spire-like  towards  the 
faint  blue  sky.  That  question  about  God — 
Olva  had  never  believed  in  any  kind  of  a  God. 
His  father  had  defied  God  and  the  Devil  time 
and  again  and  had  been  none  the  worse  for  it. 
And  yet — here  and  there  about  the  world 
people  lived  and  had  their  being  to  whom  this 
question  of  God  was  a  vital  question ;  people 
like  Bunning  and  his  crowd — mad,  the  whole 
lot  of  them.  Nevertheless  there  was  some- 


10  THE  PKELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

thing  there  that  had  great  power.  That  had, 
until  to-day,  been  Olva's  attitude,  an  amused 
superior  curiosity. 

Now  it  was  a  larger  question.  There  had 
been  that  moment  after  Carfax  had  fallen,  a 
moment  of  intense  silence,  and  in  that  moment 
something  had  spoken  to  Olva.  It  is  a  fact  as 
sure  as  concrete,  as  though  he  himself  could 
remember  words  and  gesture.  There  had  been 
Something  there.  .  .  . 

Brushing  this  for  an  instant  aside,  he  faced 
next  the  question  of  his  arrest.  There  was  no 
one,  save  his  father,  for  whom  he  need  think. 
He  would  send  his  father  word  saying — "  I 
have  killed  a  beast — fairly — in  the  open  " — 
that  would  be  all. 

He  would  not  be  hanged — poison  should  see 
to  that.  Dunes  had  murdered,  raped,  tortured 
— never  yet  had  they  died  on  the  gallows. 

And  now,  for  the  first  time,  the  suspicion 
crossed  his  mind  that  perhaps,  after  all,  he 
might  escape — escape,  at  any  rate,  that  order 
of  punishment.  Here  on  this  desolate  road, 
he  had  met  no  living  soul ;  the  mists  encom- 
passed him  and  they  had  now  swallowed  the 
dripping  wood  and  all  that  it  contained.  It 


LAST   CHAPTER  11 

had  always  been  supposed  that  he  was  Yery 
good  friends  with  Carfax,  as  good  friends  as  he 
allowed  himself  to  be  with  any  one.  No  one 
had  known  in  which  direction  he  would  take  his 
walk ;  he  had  come  upon  Carfax  entirely  by 
chance.  It  might  quite  naturally  be  supposed 
that  some  tramp  had  attempted  robbery.  To 
the  world  at  large  Olva  could  have  had  no 
possible  motive.  But,  for  the  moment,  these 
thoughts  were  dismissed.  It  seemed  to  him 
just  now  immaterial  whether  he  lived  or  died. 
Life  had  not  hitherto  been  so  wonderful  a 
discovery  that  the  making  of  it  had  been  en- 
tirely worth  while.  He  had  no  terror  of  dis- 
grace ;  his  father  was  his  only  court  of  appeal, 
and  that  old  rocky  sinner,  sitting  alone  with  his 
proud  spirit  and  his  grey  hairs,  in  his  northern 
fastness,  hating  and  despising  the  world,  would 
himself  slay,  had  he  the  opportunity,  as  many 
men  of  the  Carfax  kind  as  he  could  find.  He 
had  no  terror  of  pain — he  did  not  know  what 
that  kind  of  fear  was.  The  Dunes  had  always 
faced  Death. 

But  he  began,  dimly,  now  to  perceive  that 
there  were  larger,  crueller  issues  before  him  than 
these  material  punishments.  He  had  known 


12  THE  PEELUDB  TO  ADVENTUBB 

since  he  was  a  tiny  child  a  picture  by  some 
Spanish  painter,  whose  name  he  had  forgotten, 
that  had  always  hung  on  the  wall  of  the  passage 
opposite  his  bedroom.  It  was  a  large  engraving 
in  sharply  contrasted  black  and  white,  of  a 
knight  who  rode  through  mists  along  a  climbing 
road  up  into  the  heart  of  towering  hills.  The 
mountains  had  an  active  lif e  in  the  picture ; 
they  seemed  to  crowd  forward  eager  to  swallow 
him.  Beside  the  spectre  horse  that  he  rode 
there  was  no  other  life.  The  knight's  face,  white 
beneath  his  black  helmet,  was  tired  and  worn. 
About  him  was  the  terror  of  loneliness. 

From  his  earliest  years  this  idea  of  loneliness 
had  pleasantly  seized  upon  Olva's  mind.  His 
father  had  always  impressed  upon  him  that  the 
Dunes  had  ever  been  lonely — lonely  in  a  world 
that  was  contemptible.  He  had  always  until 
now  accepted  this  idea  and  found  it  confirmed 
on  every  side.  TTis  six  years  at  Harrow  had 
encouraged  him — he  had  despised,  with  his 
tolerant  smile,  boys  and  masters  alike;  all 
insincere,  all  weak,  all  to  be  used,  if  he  wanted 
them,  as  he  chose  to  use  them.  He  had  thought 
often  of  the  lonely  knight — that  indeed  should  be 
his  attitude  to  the  world. 


LAST  CHAPTEB  13 

But  now,  suddenly,  as  the  scattered  Cambridge 
houses  with  their  dull  yellow  lights  began  to 
creep  stealthily  through  the  mist,  upon  the 
road,  he  knew  for  the  first  time  that  loneliness 
could  be  terrible.  He  was  hurrying  now,  al- 
though he  had  not  formerly  been  conscious  of 
it,  hurrying  into  the  lights  and  comforts  and 
noise  of  the  town.  There  might  only  be  for  him 
now  a  night  and  day  of  freedom,  but,  during 
that  time,  he  must  not,  he  must  not  be  alone. 
The  patter  of  Bunker's  feet  beside  him  pleased 
him.  Bunker  was  now  a  fact  of  enormous 
importance  to  him. 

And  now  he  could  see  further.  He  could  see 
that  he  must  always  now,  from  the  conscious- 
ness of  the  thing  that  he  had  done,  be  alone. 
The  actual  moment  of  striking  his  blow  had  put 
an  impassable  gulf  between  his  soul  and  all  the 
world.  Bodies  might  touch,  hands  might  be 
grasped,  voices  ring  together,  always  now  his 
soul  must  be  alone.  Only,  that  Something — 
of  whose  Presence  he  had  been,  in  that  instant, 
aware — could  keep  his  company.  They  two  ... 
they  two.  .  .  . 

The  suburbs  of  Cambridge  had  closed  about 
him.  Those  dreary  little  streets,  empty  as  it 


U     THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

seemed  of  all  life,  facing  him  sullenly  with  their 
sodden  little  yellow  lamps,  shivering,  grumbling, 
he  could  fancy,  in  the  chill  of  that  November 
evening,  eyed  him  with  suspicion.  He  walked 
through  them  now,  with  his  shoulders  back, 
his  head  up.  He  could  fancy  how,  to-morrow, 
their  dull  placidity  would  be  wrung  by  the 
discovery  of  the  crime.  The  little  wood  would 
fling  its  secret  into  the  eager  lap  of  these  decrepit 
witches ;  they  would  crowd  to  their  doors, 
chatter  it,  shout  it,  pull  it  to  pieces.  "  Body  of 
an  Undergraduate  .  .  .  Body  of  an  Under- 
graduate. ..." 

He  turned  out  of  their  cold  silence  over  the 
bridge  that  spanned  the  river,  up  the  path  that 
crossed  the  common  into  the  heart  of  the  town. 
Here,  at  once,  he  was  in  the  hubbub.  The 
little  streets  were  mediaeval  in  their  narrow  space, 
in  their  cobbles,  in  the  old  black,  fantastic 
walls  that  hung  above  them.  Beauty,  too,  on 
this  November  evening,  shone  through  the  misty 
lamplight.  Beauty  in  the  dark  purple  of  the 
evening  sky,  beauty  in  the  sudden  vista  of 
grey  courts  with  lighted  windows,  Like  eyes, 
seen  through  stone  gateways.  Beauty  in  the 
sudden  golden  shadows  of  some  corner  shop 


LAST  CHAPTEB  16 

glittering  through  the  mist ;  beauty  in  the 
overshadowing  of  the  many  towers  that  were  like 
grey  clouds  in  mid-air. 

The  little  streets  chattered  with  people — 
undergraduates  in  Norfolk  jackets,  grey  flannel 
trousers  short  enough  to  show  the  brightest  of 
socks,  walked  arm  in  arm — voices  rang  out — 
men  called  across  the  streets — hansoms  rattled 
like  little  whirlwinds  along  the  cobbles — many 
bells  were  ringing — dark  bodies,  leaning  from 
windows,  gave  uncouth  cries  .  .  .  over  it  all 
the  mellow  lamplight. 

Into  this  happy  confusion  Olva  Dune  plunged. 
He  shook  off  from  him,  as  a  dog  shakes  water 
from  his  back,  the  memory  of  that  white  mist- 
haunted  road.  Once  he  deliberately  faced  the 
moment  when  he  had  been  sick — faced  it, 
heard  once  again  the  dull,  lumbering  sound  that 
the  body  had  made  as  it  bundled  along  the 
road,  and  then  put  it  from  him  altogether. 
Now  for  battle  ...  his  dark  eyes  challenged 
this  shifting  cloud  of  life. 

He  went  round  to  the  stable  where  Bunker 
was  housed,  chattered  with  the  blue-chinned 
ostler,  and  then,  for  a  moment,  was  alone  with 
the  dog.  How  much  had  Bunker  seen  f  How 


16  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

much  had  he  understood  T  Was  it  fancy,  or 
did  the  dog  crouch,  the  tiniest  impulse,  away 
from  him  as  he  bent  to  pat  him.  Bunker  was 
tired ;  he  relapsed  on  to  his  haunches,  wagged 
his  tail,  grinned,  but  in  his  eyes  there  seemed, 
although  the  lamplight  was  deceptive,  to  be 
the  faintest  shadow  of  an  apprehension. 

"  Good  old  dog,  good  old  Bunker."  Bunker 
wagged  his  tail,  but  the  tiniest  shiver  passed, 
like  a  thought,  through  his  body. 

Olva  left  him. 

As  he  passed  through  the  streets  he  met  men 
whom  he  knew.  They  nodded  or  flung  a 
greeting.  How  strange  to  think  that  to-morrow 
night  they  would  be  speaking  of  him  in  low, 
grave  voices  as  one  who  was  already  dead.  "  I 
knew  the  fellow  quite  well,  strange,  reserved 
man — nobody  really  knew  him.  With  these 
foreigners,  you  know  .  .  ." 

Oh !  he  could  hear  them ! 

He  passed  through  the  gates  of  Saul's.  The 
enormous  porter  touched  his  hat.  The  great 
Centre  Court  was  shrouded  in  mist,  and  out  of 
the  white  veil  the  grey  buildings  rose,  gently, 
on  every  side.  There  were  lights  now  in  the 
windows  j  the  Chapel  bell  was  ringing,  hushed 


LAST   CHAPTEE  17 

and  dimmed  by  the  heavy  air.  Boots  rang 
sharply  along  the  stone  corridors.  Olva  crossed 
the  court  towards  his  room. 

Suddenly,  from  the  very  heart  of  the  mist, 
sharply,  above  the  sound  of  the  Chapel  bell,  a 
voice  called — 

"  Carfax  !     Carfax  !  " 

Olva  stayed :  for  an  instant  the  blood  ran 
from  his  body,  his  knees  quivered,  his  face  was 
as  white  as  the  mist.  Then  he  braced  himself — 
he  knew  the  voice. 

"  Hullo,  Craven,  is  that  you  ?  " 

"  Who's  that  ?  .  .  .  Can't  see  in  this  mist." 

"  Dune." 

"  Hullo,  Dune.  I  say,  do  you  know  what's 
happened  to  Carfax  f  " 

"  Happened  T    No — why  t " 

"  Well,  I  can't  find  him  anywhere.  I  wanted 
to  get  him  for  Bridge.  He  ought  to  be  back 
by  now." 

"  Back  T    Where's  he  been  ?  " 

"  Going  over  to  see  some  aunt  or  other  at 
Grantchester — ought  to  be  back  by  now." 

An  aunt  f — No,  Eose  Midgett. 

"  No — I've  no  idea — haven't  seen  him  since 
yesterday." 


18  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

"  Been  out  for  a  walk  f  " 
"  Yes,  just  took  my  dog  for  a  bit." 
"  See  yon  in  Hall  T  " 
"  Eight— o  !  " 

The   voice    began    again    calling   nnder   the 
windows — "  Carfax  !    Carfax  !  " 

Olva  climbed  the  stairs  to  his  rooms. 


CHAPTEE    H 

BUNNING 


HE  went  into  Hall.  He  sat  amongst  the 
particular  group  of  his  own  year  who 
were  considered  the  &,iie.  There  was  Car- 
dillac  there,  brilliant,  flashing  Cardillac.  There 
was  Bobby  Galleon,  fat,  good-natured,  sleepy, 
intelligent  in  an  odd  bovine  way.  There  was 
Craven,  young,  ardent,  hail-fellow-well-met. 
There  was  Lawrence,  burly  back  for  the  Uni- 
versity in  Eugby,  unintelligent,  kind  and  good- 
tempered  unless  he  were  drunk. 

There  were  others.  They  all  sat  in  their 
glory,  noisily  happy.  Somewhere  in  the  dis- 
tance on  a  raised  dais  were  the  Dons  gravely 
pompous.  Every  now  and  again  word  was 
brought  that  the  gentlemen  were  making  too 
much  noise.  The  Master  might  be  observed 
drinking  elaborately,  ceremoniously  with  some 

H 


20  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

guest.  Madden,  the  Service  Tntor,  flung  his 
shrill  treble  voice  above  the  general  hubbub — 

"  But,  my  dear  Eoss,  if  you  had  only  ob- 
served  " 

"  Where  is  Carfax  t  "  came  suddenly  from 
Lawrence.  He  asked  Craven,  who  was,  of  course, 
the  devoted  friend  of  Carfax.  Craven  had 
large  brown  eyes,  a  charming  smile,  a  promi- 
nent chin,  rather  fat  round  cheeks  and  short 
brown  hair  that  curled  a  little.  He  gave  the 
impression  of  eager  good-temper  and  friendli- 
ness. To-night  he  looked  worried.  "  I  don't 
know,"  he  said,  "  I  can't  understand  it.  He 
said  this  morning  that  he'd  be  here  to-night 
and  make  up  a  four  at  Bridge.  He  went  off  to 
see  an  aunt  or  some  one  at  Grantchester ! " 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Bobby  Galleon  gravely, 
"  he  had  an  exeat  and  has  gone  up  to  town." 

"  But  he'd  have  said  something — sure.  And 
the  porter  hasn't  seen  him.  He  would  have 
been  certain  to  know." 

Olva  was  never  expected  to  talk  much.  His 
reserve  was  indeed  rather  popular.  The  en- 
tirely normal  and  ordinary  men  around  him 
appreciated  this  mystery.  "  Eum  fellow,  Dune 
.  .  .  nobody  knows  him."  His  high  dark  colour, 


BURNING  21 

his  dignity,  his  courtesy  had  about  it  some- 
thing distinguished  and  romantic.  "  He'll 
do  something  wonderful  one  day,  you  bet. 
Why,  if  he  only  chose  to  play  up  at  footer 
there's  nothing  he  couldn't  do." 

Even  the  brilliant  Cardillac,  thin,  dark,  hand- 
some leader  of  fashion  and  society,  admitted  the 
charm. 

Now,  however,  Olva,  looking  up,  quietly  said — 

"  I  expect  his  aunt's  kept  him  to  dinner. 
He'll  turn  up." 

But  of  course  he  wouldn't  turn  up.  He  was 
lying  in  the  heart  of  that  crushed,  dripping 
fern  with  his  leg  doubled  under  him.  It  wasn't 
often  that  one  killed  a  man  with  one  blow  ;  the 
signet  ring  that  he  wore  on  the  little  finger  of  his 
right  hand — a  Dune  ring  of  great  antiquity — 
must  have  had  something  to  do  with  it. 

He  turned  it  round  thoughtfully  on  his  finger. 
Eobert,  an  old,  old  trembling  waiter,  said  in  a 
shaking  voice — 

"  There's  salmi  of  wild  game,  sir — roast 
beef." 

"  Beef,  please,"  Olva  said  quietly. 

He  was  considering  now  that  all  these  men 
would  to-morrow  night  have  only  one  thought, 


22  THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVENTUKE 

one  idea.  They  would  remember  everything, 
the  very  slightest  thing  that  he  had  done.  They 
would  discuss  it  all  from  every  possible  point  of 
view. 

"  I  always  knew  he'd  do  something.  .  .  . 
He  suddenly  knew  quite  sharply,  as  though  a 
voice  had  spoken  to  him,  that  he  could  not 
endure  this  any  longer.  There  was  gathering 
upon  him  the  conviction  that  in  a  few  minutes, 
rising  from  his  place,  he  would  cry  out  to  the 
hall — "  I,  Olva  Dune,  this  afternoon,  killed 
Carfax.  You  will  find  his  body  in  the  wood." 
He  repeated  the  words  to  himself  under  his 
breath.  "  You  will  find  his  body  in  the  wood. 
.  .  ."  "  You  will  find  .  .  ." 

He  finished  his  beef  very  quietly  and  then 
got  up. 

Craven  appealed  to  him.  "  I  say,  Dune,  do 
come  and  make  a  four — my  rooms,  half-past 
eight — Lawrence  and  Galleon  are  the  other  two." 

Olva  looked  down  at  him  with  his  grave, 
rather  melancholy  smile. 

"  Afraid  I  can't  to-night,  Craven,  must  work." 

"  Don't  overdo  it,"  Cardillac  said. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met.  Olva  knew 
that  Cardillac — "  Cards  "  as  he  was  to  his  friends, 


23 

liked  him ;  he  himself  did  not  hate  Cardillac. 
He  was  the  only  man  in  the  College  for  whom 
he  had  respect.  They  were  both  of  them  demand- 
ing the  same  thing  from  the  world.  They 
both  of  them  despised  their  fellow-creatures. 

Olva,  climbing  the  stairs  to  his  room,  stood 
for  a  moment  in  the  dark,  before  he  turned  on 
the  lights.  He  spoke  aloud  in  a  whisper,  as 
though  some  one  were  with  him  in  the  room. 

"  This  won't  do,"  he  said.  "  This  simply 
won't  do.  Your  nerves  are  going.  You've 
only  got  a  few  hours  of  it.  Hold  on — Think 
of  the  beast  that  he  was.  Think  of  the  beast 
that  he  was." 

He  walked  slowly  back  to  the  door  and  turned 
on  the  electric  lights.  He  did  not  sport  his 
oak — if  people  came  to  see  him  he  would  rather 
like  it :  in  some  odd  way  it  would  be  more 
satisfactory  than  that  he  should  go  to  see  them — 
but  people  did  not  often  come  to  see  him. 

He  laid  out  his  books  on  the  table  and  sat 
down.  He  had  grown  very  fond  of  this  room. 
The  walls  were  distempered  white.  The  ceil- 
ing was  old  and  black  with  age.  There  was  a 
deep  red-tiled  fireplace.  One  wall  had  low 
brown  bookshelves.  There  were  two  pictures 


24  THE  PEELUDB  TO  ADVENTUEE 

—one  an  Arnndel  reprint  of  Matsys'  "  Por- 
trait of  Aegidius  " — that  wise,  kind,  tender  face 
— the  other  an  admirable  photogravure  of  Diirer's 
"  Selbstbildnis."  The  books  were  mainly  to 
do  with  his  favourite  historical  period — the 
Later  Eoman  Empire.  There  was  some  poetry 
— an  edition  of  Browning,  Swinburne's  Poems 
and  Ballads,  Ernest  Dowson,  Eossetti,  Francis 
Thompson.  There  was  an  edition  of  Hazlitt, 
a  set  of  the  Spectator,  one  or  two  novels,  Henry 
Lessingham  and  The  Roads  by  Galleon,  To 
Paradise  by  Lester,  Meredith's  One  of  Our 
Conquerors  and  Diana  of  the  Crossways,  The 
Ambassadors  and  Awlvward  Age  of  Henry  James. 

On  the  mantelpiece  above  the  fireplace  there 
were  three  deep  blue  bowls,  the  only  ornaments 
in  the  room.  Beyond  the  little  diamond-paned 
windows,  beyond  the  dark  mysteries  of  the 
Fellows'  garden,  a  golden  mist  rose  from  the 
lamps  of  the  street,  there  were  stars  in  the  sky. 

He  faced  his  books.  For  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
he  saw  before  him  the  hanging,  baggy  cheeks, 
the  white,  staring  eyes,  the  glittering  ring  on  the 
weak  finger.  His  hands  began  to  tremble.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  timid  knock  on  the  door  and  he 
was  instantly  sure  that  the  body  had  been  found, 


BUNDING  25 

and  that  they  had  come  to  arrest  him.  He  stood 
back  from  the  door  with  his  hand  pressing  on  the 
table.  It  was  almost  a  relief  to  him  that  the 
summons  had  come  so  soon — it  would  presently 
all  be  over. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said,  and  gave  one  look  at  the 
golden  mist,  at  the  stars,  at  the  tender  face  of 
Aegidius. 

The  door  was  opened  slowly  with  fumbling 
hands,  and  there  stood  there  a  large,  fat,  clumsy, 
shapeless  creature,  with  a  white  face,  a  hooked 
nose,  an  open,  foolish  mouth. 

The  reaction  was  hysterical.  To  expect  a 
summons  to  death  and  public  shame,  to  find 
— Bunning.  Bunning — that  soft,  blithering, 
emotional,  religious,  middle-class  maniac — Bun- 
ning !  "  Soft-faced  "  Bunning,  as  he  was  called, 
was  the  man  of  Olva's  year  in  whom  the  world 
at  large  found  most  entertainment.  The  son 
of  some  country  clergyman,  kicked  and  battered 
through  the  slow,  dreary  years  at  some  small 
Public  School,  he  had  come  up  to  Saul's  with  an 
intense,  burning  desire  to  make  a  mark.  He 
was  stupid,  useless  at  games,  having  only  some- 
where behind  his  fat  ugly  body  a  longing  to  be 
connected  with  some  cause,  some  movement, 


26  THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVENTUKE 

some  person  of  whom  he  might  make  a  hero. 

He  had,  of  course,  within  the  first  fortnight  of 
his  arrival,  plunged  himself  into  dire  disgrace. 
He  had  asked  Lawrence,  coming  like  a  young 
god  from  Marlborough,  in  to  coffee :  they  had 
made  him  drunk  and  laughed  at  his  hysterical 
tears  ;  in  his  desire  for  popularity  he  had  held  a 
gathering  in  his  room,  with  the  original  intention 
of  coffee,  cakes  and  gentle  conversation;  the 
evening  had  ended  with  the  arrival  of  all  his 
furniture  and  personal  effects  upon  the  grass  of 
the  court  below  his  windows. 

He  had  been  despised  by  the  Dons,  buffeted 
and  derided  by  his  fellow  undergraduates. 
Especially  had  Carfax  and  Cardillac  made  his 
life  a  burden  to  him,  and  whenever  it  seemed 
that  there  was  nothing  especial  to  do,  the  cry 
arose,  "  Let's  go  and  rag  Bunning,"  and  five 
minutes  later  that  fat  body  would  tremble 
at  the  sound  of  many  men  climbing  the  wooden 
stairs,  at  the  loud  banging  on  his  wooden  door, 
at  the  cry,  "  Hullo,  Bunning — we've  come  for 
Borne  coffee." 

Then,  towards  the  end  of  the  first  year,  the 
Cambridge  Christian  Union  flung  out  its  net 
and  caught  him.  His  attempt  at  personal  popu- 


BURNING  27 

larity  had  failed  here  as  thoroughly  as  it  had 
failed  at  school — now  for  his  soul.  He  found 
that  the  gentlemen  of  his  college  who  were  mem- 
bers of  the  Christian  Union  were  eager  for  his 
company.  They  did  not  laugh  at  his  conver- 
sation nor  mock  his  proffered  hospitalities. 
They  talked  to  him,  persuaded  him  that  his 
soul  was  in  jeopardy,  and  carried  him  off  during 
part  of  the  Long  Vacation  to  the  Norfolk  Broads, 
where  prayer-meetings,  collisions  with  other 
sea-faring  craft  and  tinned  meats  were  the 
order  of  the  day. 

Olva  had  watched  him  with  that  amused  in- 
credulity that  he  so  frequently  bestowed  upon 
his  fellow-creatures.  How  was  this  kind  of 
animal,  with  its  cowardice,  its  stupidity,  its 
ugliness,  its  uselessness,  possible  t  He  had 
never  spoken  to  Bunning,  although  he  had  once 
received  a  note  from  him  asking  him  to  coffee 
— a  piece  of  very  considerable  impertinence. 
He  had  never  assisted  Carfax  and  Cards  in  their 
raiding  expeditions,  but  that  was  only  because 
he  considered  such  things  tiresome  and  childish. 

And  now,  behold,  there  in  his  doorway,  incred- 
ible vision  ! — was  the  creature — at  this  moment 
of  all  others  1 


28  THE  PKELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

"  Come  in,"  said  Olva  again. 

Bunning  brought  his  large  quivering  body 
into  the  room  and  stood  there,  turning  his  cap 
round  and  round  in  his  hands. 

"  Oh,  I  say "  and  there  he  stopped. 

*'  Won't  you  sit  down  f  " 

«  No— thanks— I " 

"  In  what  way  can  I  be  of  use  to  you  f  " 

"  Oh  !    I  say " 

Senseless  giggles,  and  then  Bunning's  mouth 
opened  and  remained  open.  His  eyes  stared 
at  Dune. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  T  " 

"  Oh — my  word — you  know " 

"  Look  here,"  said  Olva  quietly,  "  if  you  don't 
get  on  and  tell  me  what  you  want  I  shall  do 
you  some  bodily  damage.  I've  got  work  to  do. 

Another  time,  perhaps,  when  I  am  less  busy 
» 

Bunning  was  nearly  in  tears.  "  Oh,  yes,  I 
know — it's  most  awful  cheek — I " 

There  was  a  desperate  silence  and  then  he 
plunged  out  with — "  Well,  you  know,  I — that  is 
— we — I — sort  of  wondered  whether,  you  know, 
yon'd  care — not  if  you're  awfully  busy  of  course — 
but  whether  you'd  care  to  come  and  hear  Med 


29 

Tetloe  preach  to-night.  I  know  it's  most  awful 
cheek "  He  was  nearly  in  tears. 

Olva  kept  an  amazed  silence.  Life !  What 
an  amusing  thing ! — that  he,  with  his  foot  on 
the  edge  of  disaster,  death,  should  be  invited 
by  Bunning  to  a  revival  meeting.  He  under- 
stood it,  of  course.  Bunning  had  been  sent,  as  an 
ardent  missionary  is  sent  into  the  heart  of  West 
Africa,  to  invite  Olva  to  consider  his  soul. 
He  was  expecting,  poor  creature,  to  be  kicked 
violently  down  the  twisting  wooden  stairs. 
On  another  occasion  he  would  be  sent  to  Law- 
rence or  Cardillac,  and  then  his  expectations 
would  be  most  certainly  fulfilled.  But  it  was 
for  the  cause — at  least  these  sinners  should  be 
given  the  opportunity  of  considering  their  souls. 
If  they  refused  to  consider  them,  they  must  not 
complain  if  they  find  the  next  world  but  little  to 
their  fancy. 

No  one  had  ever  attacked  Olva  before  on  this 
subject.  His  reserve  had  been  more  alarming 
to  the  Soul  Hunters  than  the  coarse  violence  of 
a  Cardillac  or  a  Carfax.  And  now  Bunning — 
Bunning  of  all  people  in  this  ridiculous  world — 
had  ventured.  Well,  there  was  pluck  necessary 
for  that.  Bunning,  the  coward,  had  done  a 


30  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

braver  thing  than  many  more  stalwart  men  would 
have  cared  to  do.    There  was  bravery  there ! 

Moreover,  why  should  not  Olva  go  ?  He  could 
not  sit  alone  in  his  room,  his  nerves  would  soon 
be  too  many  for  him.  What  did  it  matter  ? 
His  last  evening  of  freedom  should  be  spent  as  no 
other  evening  of  his  life  had  been  spent.  .  .  . 
Moreover,  might  there  not  be  something  behind 
this  business  T  Might  he  not,  perhaps,  be 
shown  to-night  some  clue  to  the  presence  of  that 
Power  that  had  spoken  to  him  in  the  wood  T 
Through  all  the  tangled  confusion  of  his  thoughts, 
through  the  fear  and  courage  there  ran  this 
note — where  was  God  f  .  .  .  God  the  only  per-  \ 
son  to  Whom  he  now  could  speak,  because  God 
knew. 

Might  not  this  idiot  of  a  Bunning  have  been 
shown  the  way  to  the  mystery  f 

"  Yes,"  said  Olva,  smiling.  "  I'll  come,  if 
you  won't  mind  sitting  down  and  smoking  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  while  I  finish  this — have  a 
drink,  will  you  ?  " 

Bunning's  consternation  at  Olva's  acceptance 
was  amusing.  He  dropped  his  cap,  stooped  to 
pick  it  up,  gasped.  That  Dune  should  really 
come  t 


BURNING  31 

V 

"  You'll  come  f  "  lie  spluttered  ont.  Fever 
in  his  wildest  imaginings  had  he  fancied  such  a 
thing.  Dune,  the  most  secret,  reserved,  mys- 
terious man  in  the  College — Dune,  whose  sar- 
castic smile  was  considered  more  terrifying  than 
Lawrence's  mailed  fist — Dune,  towards  whom 
in  the  back  of  his  mind  there  had  been  paid  that 
reverence  that  belongs  only  to  those  who  are  of 
another  world. 

Never,  in  anything  that  had  happened  to  him, 
had  Bunning  been  so  terrified  as  he  had  been  by 
this  visit  to  Dune.  Watson  Morley,  the  Chris- 
tian Union  man,  had  insisted  that  it  was  his  duty 
and  therefore  he  had  come,  but  it  had  taken  him 
ten  minutes  of  agony  to  climb  those  stairs. 
And  now  Dune  had  accepted.  .  .  . 

The  colour  flooded  his  cheeks  and  faded  again. 
He  sat  down  clumsily  in  a  chair,  felt  for  a  pipe 
that  he  smoked  unwillingly  because  it  was  the 
manly  thing  to  do,  spurted  some  Apollinaris 
into  a  glass  and  over  the  tablecloth,  struck  many 
matches  vainly,  dropped  tobacco  on  to  the  carpet. 
His  heart  was  beating  like  a  hammer ! 

How  men  would  stare  when  they  saw  him  with 
Dune.  In  his  heart  was  the  uneasy  knowledge 
that  had  Dune  proposed  staying  there  in  his 


32  THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

rooms  and  talking  instead  of  going  to  Little  St. 
Agnes  and  listening  to  the  Beverend  Med.  Tetloe, 
lie  would  have  stayed.  This  was  not  right,  it  was 
not  Christian.  The  world  gaped  below  Bunning's 
heavy  feet. 

At  last  Dune  said :    "  I'm  ready,  let's  go." 
They  went  out. 


Little  St.  Agnes  was  apparently  so  named 
because  it  was  the  largest  church  in  Cambridge. 
It  was  of  no  ancient  date,  but  it  was  grim,  grey, 
dark — admirably  suited  to  an  occasion  like  the 
present.  Under  the  high  roof,  lost  in  a  grey  cloud, 
resolving  themselves  into  rows  of  white,  intense 
faces,  sat  hundreds  of  undergraduates. 

They  were  seated  on  uncomfortable,  unstable 
chairs,  and  the  noise  of  their  uneasy  movements 
sent  squeaks  up  and  down  the  building  as 
though  it  had  been  a  barn  filled  with  terrified 
rats. 

Far  in  the  distance,  perched  on  a  high  pulpit, 
was  a  little  white  figure — an  old  gaunt  man 
with  a  bony  hand  and  a  grey  beard.  Behind 
him  again  there  was  darkness.  Only,  in  all  the 


BUKNING  33 

vast  place,  the  white  body  and  rows  of  white 
faces  raised  to  it. 

Olva  and  Bunning  fonnd  seats  in  a  corner. 
A  slight  soft  voice  said,  with  the  mysterious  im- 
portance of  one  about  to  deliver  an  immense 
secret,  "  You  will  look  in  the  Mission  Books, 
Hymn  330.  *  Oh  !  for  the  arms  of  Jesus.'  I 
want  you  to  think  for  a  moment  of  the  meaning 
of  the  words  before  you  sing." 

There  followed  the  rustling  of  many  pages 
and  then  a  heavy,  emotional  silence.  Olva 
read  the  words  and  found  them  very  senti- 
mental, very  bad  verse  and  rather  unpleasantly 
full  of  blood  and  pain.  Every  one  stood  ;  the 
chairs  creaked  from  one  end  of  the  building 
to  the  other,  an  immense  volume  of  sound  rose 
to  the  roof. 

Olva  felt  that  the  entire  church  was  seized 
with  emotion.  He  saw  that  Bunning's  hand 
was  trembling,  he  knew  that  many  eyes  were 
filled  with  tears.  For  himself,  he  understood 
at  once  that  that  distant  figure  in  white  was  here 
to  make  a  dramatic  appeal — dramatic  as  cer- 
tainly as  the  appeal  that  a  famous  actor  might 
make  in  London.  That  was  his  job — he  was  out 
for  it — and  anything  in  the  way  of  silence  or 

D 


34     THE  PKELTJDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

noise,  of  darkness  or  light,  that  could  add  to 
the  effect  would  be  utilized.  Olva  knew  also 
that  nine-tenths  of  the  undergraduates  were 
present  there  for  the  same  purpose.  They  wished 
to  have  their  emotions  played  upon  ;  they  wished 
also  to  be  reassured  about  life  ;  they  wished  to 
confuse  this  dramatic  emotion  with  a  sincere 
desire  for  salvation.  They  wished,  it  is  true, 
to  be  good,  but  they  wished,  a  great  deal  more, 
to  be  dramatically  stirred. 

Olva  was  reminded  of  the  tensity  of  the  atmo- 
sphere at  a  bull-fight  that  he  had  once  seen 
in  Madrid.  Here  again  was  the  same  inten- 
sity. .  .  . 

He  saw,  therefore,  in  this  first  singing  of  the 
hymn,  that  this  place,  this  appeal,  would  be  of 
no  use  in  his  own  particular  need.  This  deliber- 
ate evoking  of  dramatic  effect  had  nothing  to 
do  with  that  silent  consciousness  of  God.  This 
place,  this  appeal,  was  fantastic,  childish,  beside 
that  event  that  had  that  afternoon  sent  Carfax 
into  space.  Let  these  men  hurry  to  the  wood, 
let  them  find  the  sodden  body,  let  them  face 
then  the  reality  of  Life 

Again,  as  before  in  Hall,  he  was  tempted  to 
rise  and  cry  out :  "  I  have  killed  Carfax.  I 


BUNNINQ  35 

have  killed  Carfax.  What  of  all  your  theories 
now  f  "  That  trembling  ass,  Banning,  singing 
now  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  shaking  with  the  fer- 
vour of  it,  let  him  know  that  he  had  brought  a 
murderer  to  the  sacred  gathering — again  Olva 
had  to  concentrate  all  his  mind,  his  force,  his 
power  upon  the  conquest  of  his  nerves.  For  a 
moment  it  seemed  as  though  he  would  lose  all 
control;  he  stood,  his  knees  quivering  beneath 
him — then  strength  came  back  to  him. 

After  the  hymn  the  address.  There  was 
tense,  rapt  silence.  The  little  voice  went  on, 
soft,  low,  sweet,  pleading,  very  clear.  There 
must  be  many  men  who  had  not  yet  found  God. 
There  were  those,  perhaps,  in  the  Church  to-night 
who  had  not  even  thought  about  God.  There 
were  those  again  who,  maybe,  had  some  crime 
on  their  conscience  and  did  not  know  how  to  get 
rid  of  it.  Would  they  not  come  to  Christ  and  ask 
His  help  f 

Stories  were  told.  Story  of  the  young  man 
who  cursed  his  mother,  broke  his  leg,  and  ar- 
rived home  just  too  late  to  see  her  alive.  Story 
of  the  friend  who  died  to  save  another  friend, 
and  how  many  souls  were  saved  by  this  self- 
sacrifice.  Story  of  the  Undergraduate  who 


36  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

gambled  and  drank  and  was  converted  by  a 
barmaid  and  eventually  became  a  Bishop. 

All  these  examples  of  God's  guidance.  Then, 
for  an  instant,  there  is  a  great  silence.  The 
emotion  now  is  beating  in  waves  against  the 
wall.  The  faces  are  whiter  now,  hands  are 
clenched,  lips  bitten.  Suddenly  there  leaps 
upon  them  all  that  gentle  voice,  now  a  trumpet. 
"  Who  is  for  the  Lord  f  Who  is  for  the 
Lord  1 " 

Then  gently  again, — "  Let  us  pray  in  silence 
for  a  few  minutes."  ...  A  great  creaking  of 
chairs,  more  intense  silence.  At  last  the  voice 
again — "  Will  those  who  are  sure  that  they  are 
saved  stand  up  t  "  Dead  silence — no  one  moves. 
"  Will  those  who  wish  to  be  saved  stand  up  ?  " 
With  one  movement  every  one — save  only  Olva, 
dark  in  his  corner — stands  up.  Bunning's 
eyes  are  flaming,  his  body  is  trembling  from 
head  to  foot. 

"  Christ  is  amongst  you !  Christ  is  in  the 
midst  of  you  !  " 

Suddenly,  somewhere  amongst  the  shadows 
a  voice  breaks  out — "  Oh  !  my  God  !  Oh  !  my 
God  !  "  Some  one  is  crying — some  one  else  is 
crying.  All  about  the  building  men  are  falling 


37 

on  to  their  knees.  Bunning  has  crashed  on  to 
his — his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 

The  little  gentle  voice  again — "  I  shall  be 
delighted  to  speak  to  any  of  those  whose  consci- 
ences are  burdened.  If  any  who  wish  to  see  me 
would  wait.  .  .  ." 

The  souls  are  caught  for  God. 

Prayers  followed,  another  hymn.  Bunning 
with  red  eyes  has  contemplated  his  sins  and 
is  in  a  glow  of  excited  repentance.  It  is 
over. 

As  Olva  rose  to  leave  the  building  he  knew 
that  this  was  not  the  path  for  which  he  was 
searching.  Not  here  was  that  terrible  Presence. 
.  .  .  The  men  poured  in  a  black  crowd  out  into 
the  night.  As  Olva  stepped  into  the  darkness 
he  knew  that  the  terror  was  only  now  beginning 
for  him.  Standing  there  now  with  no  sorrow, 
remorse,  repentance,  nevertheless  he  knew  that 
all  night,  alone  in  his  room,  he  would  be  fighting 
with  devils.  .  .  . 

Bunning,  nervously,  stammered — "  If  you 
don't  mind — I  think  I'm  going  round  for  a 
minute." 

Olva  nodded  good-night.  As  he  went  on  his 
way  to  Saul's,  grimly,  it  seemed  humorous 


38  THE  PKELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

that   "  soft-faced "   Bunning   should  be  going 
now  to  confess  his  thin,  miserable  little  sins. 

For     him,    Olva    Dune,    only    a    dreadful 
silence.  •  •  • 


CHAPTEE    III 

THE  BODY  COMES  TO  TOWN 


AND  after  all  lie  slept,  slept  dreamlessly. 
He  woke  to  the  comfortable  accustomed 
voices  of  Mrs.  Eidge,  his  bedmaker,  and  Miss 
Annett,  her  assistant.  It  was  a  cold  frosty 
morning ;  the  sky  showed  through  the  window 
a  cloudless  blue. 

He  could  hear  the  deep  base  voice  of  Mrs. 
Eidge  in  her  favourite  phrase :  "  Well,  I 
don't  think,  Miss  Annett.  You  won't  get  over 
me,"  and  Miss  Annett's  mildly  submissive, 
"  I  should  think  not  indeed,  Mrs.  Eidge." 

Lying  back  in  bed  he  surveyed  with  a  mild 
wonder  the  fact  that  he  had  thus,  easily,  slept. 
He  felt,  moreover,  that  that  body  had  already, 
in  the  division  of  to-day  from  yesterday,  lost 
much  of  its  haunting  power.  In  the  clean  fresh- 
ness of  the  day,  in  the  comfort  of  the  casual 
voices  of  the  two  women  in  the  other  room,  in 
the  smell  of  the  coffee,  yesterday's  melodrama 


40  THE  PEELUDB  TO  ADVENTUBE 

seemed  incredible.  It  had  never  happened ; 
goon  he  would  see  from  his  window  Carfax's 
hulking  body  cross  the  court.  No,  it  was  real 
enough,  only  it  did  not  concern  him.  He 
watched  it,  as  a  spectator,  indifferent,  callous. 
There  was  a  change  in  his  life,  but  it  was  a 
change  of  another  kind.  In  the  strange  con- 
sciousness that  he  now  had  of  some  vast  and 
vital  Presence,  the  temporal  fact  of  the  thing 
that  he  had  done  lost  all  importance.  There 
was  something  that  he  had  got  to  find,  to  dis- 
cover. If — and  the  possibility  seemed  large 
now  in  the  air  of  this  brilliant  morning — he  were, 
after  all,  to  escape,  he  would  not  rest  until 
he  had  made  his  discovery.  Some  new  life 
was  stirring  within  him.  He  wanted  now  to 
fling  himself  amongst  men ;  he  would  play  foot- 
ball, he  would  take  his  place  in  the  college,  he 
would  test  everything — leave  no  stone  unturned. 
No  longer  a  cynical  observer,  he  would  be  an  ad- 
venturer ...  if  they  would  let  him  alone. 

He  got  out  of  bed,  stripped,  and  stood  over 
his  bath.  The  cold  air  beat  upon  his  skin ;  he 
rejoiced  in  the  sense  of  his  fitness,  in  the  move- 
ment of  his  muscles,  in  the  splendid  condition 
of  his  body.  If  this  were  to  be  the  last  day  of 


THE   BODY  COMES  TO   TOWN       41 

his  freedom,  it  should  at  any  rate  be  a  splendid 
day. 

He  had  his  bath,  fltmg  on  a  shirt  and  trousers 
and  went  into  his  sitting-room,  bright  now  with 
the  morning  sun,  so  that  the  blue  bowls  and 
the  red  tiles  shone,  and  even  the  dark  face  of 
Aegidius  was  lighted  with  the  gleam. 

Mrs.  Eidge  was  short  and  stout,  with  white 
hair,  a  black  bonnet,  and  the  deepest  of  voices. 
Her  eagerness  to  deliver  herself  of  all  the  things 
that  she  wanted  to  say  prevented  full-stops  and 
commas  from  being  of  any  use  to  her.  Miss 
Annett  was  admirably  suited  as  a  companion, 
being  long,  thin  and  silent,  and  intended  by 
nature  to  be  subservient  to  the  more  masterful  of 
her  sex.  With  any  man  she  was  able  easily  to 
hold  her  own  ;  with  Mrs.  Eidge  she  was  bending, 
bowed,  humility. 

Mrs.  Eidge  grinned  like  a  dog  at  the  appear- 
ance of  Olva.  "  Good  mornin',  sir,  and  a  nice 
frosty  cold  sort  o'  day  it  is  with  Miss  Annett 
just  breakin'  one  of  your  cups,  sir,  'er  'ands  bein' 
that  cold  and  a  cup  bein'  an  easy  thing  to 
slip  out  of  the  'and  as  you  must  admit 
yourself,  sir.  Pore  Miss  Annett  is  that  dis- 
tressed." 


42     THE  PBELTJDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

Miss  Annett  did  indeed  look  downcast.  "  I 
can't  think "  she  began. 

"  It's  quite  all  right,  Miss  Annett,"  said  Olva, 
"  I  think  it's  wonderful  that  you  break  the  things 
as  seldom  as  you  do.  The  china  was  of  no 
kind  of  value." 

It  waa  known  in  the  college  that  Mr.  Dune 
was  the  only  gentleman  of  whom  Mrs.  Eidge 
could  be  said  to  be  afraid ;  she  was  proud  of 
him  and  frightened  of  him.  She  said  to  Miss 
Annett,  when  that  lady  made  her  first  appear- 
ance— 

"  And  I  can  tell  you,  Miss  Annett,  that  you  need 
never  'ave  no  fear  of  bein'  introjuced  to  Eoyalty 
one  of  these  days  after  bein'  with  that  Mr. 
Dune,  because  it  puts  you  in  practice,  I  can 
tell  you,  and  a  nice  spoken  gentleman  'e  is  and 
quiet — never  does  a  thing  'e  shouldn't,  but  wicked 
under  it  all  I'll  be  bound.  'E's  no  chicken,  you 
take  it  from  me.  Born  yesterday  t  I  don't 
think.  .  .  ." 

The  women  faded  away,  and  he  was  left  to 
himself.  After  breakfast  he  thought  that  he 
would  write  to  his  father  and  give  him  an 
account  of  the  thing  that  he  had  done ;  if  he 
escaped  suspicion  he  would  tear  it  up.  Also 


THE   BODY   COMES  TO   TOWS       43 

he  was  determined  on  two  things  :  one  was  that 
if  he  were  accused  of  the  crime,  he  would  at  once 
admit  everything  ;  the  other  was  that  he  would 
do  his  utmost,  until  he  was  accused,  to  lead  his 
life  exactly  as  though  he  were  in  no  way  con- 
cerned. He  had  now  an  odd  assurance  that  it 
was  not  by  his  public  condemnation  that  he  was 
intended  to  work  out  the  results  of  his  act. 
Why  was  he  so  assured  of  that  ?  What  was  it 
that  was  now  so  strangely  moving  him  f  He 
faced  the  world,  armed,  resolved.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  it  was  important  for  him,  now,  to  live. 
This  was  the  first  moment  of  his  life  that  exist- 
ence had  appeared  to  be  of  any  moment.  He 
wanted  time  to  continue  his  search. 
He  wrote  to  his  father — 

"  MY  DEAR  FATHER, — 

"  I  have  just  been  arrested  on  the  charge  of 
murdering  an  undergraduate  here  called  Carfax. 
It  is  quite  true  that  I  killed  him.  We  met  yester- 
day, in  the  country,  quarrelled,  and  I  struck 
him,  hitting  him  on  the  chin.  He  fell  instantly, 
breaking  his  neck.  He  was  muck  of  the  worst 
kind.  I  had  known  him  at  Harrow ;  he  was 
always  a  beast  of  the  lowest  order.  He  waa 


44  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

ruining  a  fellow  here,  taking  his  money,  making 
him  drink,  doing  for  him ;  also  ruining  a  girl 
in  a  tobacconist's  shop.  All  this  was  no  busi- 
ness of  mine,  but  we  had  always  loathed  one 
another.  I  think  when  I  hit  him  I  wanted  to 
kill  him.  I  am  not,  in  any  way,  sorry,  except 
that  suddenly  I  do  not  want  to  die.  You  are 
the  only  person  in  the  world  for  whom  I  care ; 
you  will  understand.  I  have  not  disgraced  the 
name ;  it  was  killing  a  rat.  I  think  that  you 
had  better  not  come  to  see  me.  I  face  it  better 
alone.  We  have  gone  along  well  together,  you 
and  I.  I  send  you  my  love.  Good-bye, 

"  OLVA." 

As  he  finished  it,  he  wondered,  Would  this  be 
sent  ?  Would  they  come  for  him  t  Perhaps, 
at  this  moment,  they  had  found  the  body. 
He  put  the  letter  carefully  in  the  pocket  of  his 
shirt.  Then,  suddenly,  he  was  confronted  with 
the  risk.  Suppose  that  he  were  to  be  taken  ill, 
to  faint,  to  forget  the  thing.  .  .  .  No,  the  letter 
must  wait.  They  would  allow  him  to  write,  if 
the  time  came. 

He  took  the  letter,  flung  it  into  the  fire,  watched 
it  burn.  He  felt  as  though,  in  the  writing  of  it, 


THE  BODY   COMES  TO   TOWN        45 

he  had  communicated  with  his  father.    The 
old  man  would  understand. 

2 

About  eleven  o'clock  Craven  came  to  see  him, 
Craven's  father  had  been  a  Fellow  of  Trinity 
and  Professor  of  Chinese  to  the  University. 
He  had  died  some  five  years  ago  and  now  the 
widow  and  young  Craven's  sister  lived  in  Cam- 
bridge. Craven  had  tried,  during  his  first  term, 
to  make  a  friend  of  Olva,  but  his  happy, 
eager  attitude  to  the  whole  world  had  seemed 
crude  and  even  priggish  to  Olva's  reserve,  and 
all  Craven's  overtures  had  been  refused,  quietly, 
kindly,  but  firmly.  Craven  had  not  resented 
the  repulse ;  it  was  not  his  habit  to  resent  any- 
thing, and  as  the  year  had  passed,  Olva  had 
realized  that  Craven's  impetuous  desire  for  the 
friendship  of  the  world  was  something  in  him 
perfectly  natural  and  unforced.  Olva  had  dis- 
covered also  that  Craven's  devotion  to  his  mother 
and  sister  was  the  boy's  leading  motive  in 
life.  Olva  had  only  seen  the  girl,  Margaret, 
once ;  she  had  been  finishing  her  education  in 
Dresden,  and  he  remembered  her  as  dark,  re- 
served, aloof — opposite  indeed  from  her  brother's 


46  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

cheerful  good-fellowship.  Bnt  for  Eupert  Craven 
this  girl  was  his  world ;  she  was  obviously 
cleverer,  more  temperamental  than  he,  and  he 
felt  this  and  bowed  to  it. 

These  things  Olva  liked  in  him,  and  had  the 
boy  not  been  so  intimate  with  Cardillae  and  Car- 
fax, Olva  might  have  made  advances.  Craven 
took  a  man  of  the  Carfax  type  with  extreme 
simplicity ;  he  thought  his  geniality  and  phy- 
sical strength  excused  much  coarseness  and  vul- 
garity. He  was  still  young  enough  to  have 
the  Public  School  code — the  most  amazing 
thing  in  the  history  of  the  British  nation — and 
because  Carfax  bruised  his  way  as  a  forward 
through  many  football  matches  and  fought  a 
policeman  on  Parker's  Piece  one  summer  even- 
ing, Eupert  Craven  thought  him  a  jolly  good 
fellow.  Carfax  also  had  had  probably,  at  the 
bottom  of  his  dirty,  ignoble  soul,  more  honest 
affection  for  Craven  than  for  any  one  in  the 
world.  He  had  tried  to  behave  himself  in  the 
ingenuous  youth's  company. 

Now  young  Craven,  disturbed,  unhappy, 
anxious,  stood  in  Olva's  door. 

"  I  say,  Dune,  I  hope  I'm  not  disturbing 
you  t " 


"  "Not  a  bit." 

"  It's  a  rotten  time  to  come."  Craven  came 
in  and  sat  down.  "  I'm  awfully  worried." 

"  Worried  ?  " 

"  Yes,  about  Carfax.  No  one  knows  what's 
happened  to  him.  He  may  have  gone  up  to 
town,  of  course,  but  if  he  did  he  went  without  an 
exeat.  Thompson  saw  him  go  out  about  two- 
thirty  yesterday  afternoon — was  going  to  Grant- 
Chester,  because  he  yelled  it  back  to  Cards,  who 
asked  him  where  he  was  off  to — not  been  heard 
or  seen  since." 

"  Oh,  he's  sure  to  be  all  right,"  Olva  said  easily. 

"  He's  up  in  town  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  expect  he  is,  but  I  don't  know  that  that 
makes  it  any  better.  There's  some  woman  he's 
been  getting  in  a  mess  with  I  know — didn't  say 
anything  to  me  about  it,  but  I  heard  of  it  from 
Cards." 

"Well — "  Olva  slowly  lit  his  pipe — "  there's 
something  else  too.  He  was  always  in  with 
a  lot  of  these  roughs  in  the  town — stable' 
men  and  the  rest.  He  used  to  get  tips  from 
them,  he  always  said,  and  he's  had  awful  rows 
with  some  of  them  before  now.  You  know 
what  a  temper  he's  got,  especially  when  he's 


48  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

been  drinking  at  all.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he 
hadn't  a  fight  one  fine  day  and  got  landed  on  the 
chin,  or  something,  and  left." 

"  Oh !  Carfax  can  look  after  himself  all 
right.  He's  used  to  that  kind  of  company." 

Olva  gazed,  through  the  smoke  of  his  pipe, 
dreamily  into  the  fire. 

"  You  don't  like  him,"  Craven  said  suddenly. 

Olva  turned  slowly  in  his  chair  and  looked  at 
him.  "  Why  !  What  makes  you  say  that  ?  " 

"  Something  Carfax  told  me  the  other  day. 
We  were  sitting  one  evening  in  his  room  and  he 
suddenly  said  to  me,  *  You  know  there  is  one 
fellow  in  this  place  who  hates  me  like  poison — 
always  has  hated  me.'  I  asked  him  who  it  was. 
He  said  it  was  you.  I  was  immensely  surprised, 
because  I'd  always  thought  you  very  good 
friends — as  good  friends  as  you  ever  are  with 
any  one,  Dune.  You  don't  exactly  take  any  of 
us  to  your  breast,  you  know !  " 

Dune  smiled.  "  No,  I  think  I've  made  a 
mistake  in  keeping  so  much  alone.  It  looks  as 
though  I  thought  myself  so  damned  superior. 
But  I  assure  you  Carfax  was — is — quite  wrong. 
We've  been  friendly  enough  all  our  days." 

"  No,"  said  Craven  slowly,  "  I  don't  think  yon 


THE  BODY  COMES   TO   TOWS       49 

do  like  Mm.  I've  watched  you  since.  He's  an 
awfully  good  fellow — really — at  heart,  you  know. 
I  do  hope  things  are  all  right.  I  sent  off  a  wire 
to  his  uncle  in  town  half  an  hour  ago  to  ask 
whether  he  were  there.  I  don't  know  why  I'm 
so  anxious.  .  .  .  It's  all  right,  of  course,  but  I'm 
uneasy." 

"  Well,  you're  quite  wrong  about  my  disliking 
Carfax,"  Olva  went  on.  "  And  I  think,  alto- 
gether, it's  about  time  I  came  off  my  perch.  For 
one  thing  I'm  going  to  take  up  Bugger  properly." 

"  Oh,  but  that's  splendid !  Will  you  play 
against  St.  Martin's  to-morrow  f  It  will  relieve 
Lawrence  like  anything  if  you  will.  They've 
got  Cards,  Worcester  and  Tundril,  and  they  want 
a  fourth  Three  badly.  My  word,  Dune,  that 
would  be  splendid.  We'll  have  you  a  Blue  after 
all." 

"  A  little  late  for  that,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  They  keep  on  changing  the 
Threes.  Of  course  Cards  is  having  a  good  shot 
at  it,  but  he  isn't  down  against  the  Harlequins 
on  Saturday,  and  mighty  sick  he  is  about  it." 
Craven  got  up  to  go.  "  Well,  I  must  be  moving. 
Perhaps  Carfax  is  back  in  his  rooms.  There 
may  be  word  of  him  anyway." 


60     THE  PEELIIDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

Olva's  pipe  was  out.  The  match  box  on 
the  mantelpiece  was  empty.  He  felt  in  his 
pocket  for  the  little  silver  box  that  he  always 
carried.  It  was  a  box,  with  the  Dune  arms 
stamped  upon  it,  that  his  father  had  given  to 
him.  He  had  had  it,  he  remembered,  yesterday 
when  he  set  out  on  his  walk.  He  felt  in  all 
his  pockets.  These  were  the  clothes  that  he  was 
wearing  yesterday.  Perhaps  it  was  in  his  bed- 
room. He  went  in  to  look,  and  Craven  mean- 
while watched  him  from  the  door. 

"  What  have  you  lost  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

It  was  not  in  the  bedroom.  He  felt  in  the 
overcoat  that  he  had  been  wearing.  It  was  not 
there. 

"  Nothing.  It's  a  matchbox  of  mine — must 
have  dropped  out  of  a  pocket." 

"  Sorry.  Daresay  it  will  turn  up.  Well, 
see  you  later." 

Craven  vanished;  then  suddenly  put  his 
head  in  through  the  door. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Dune,  come  in  to  supper  to- 
morrow night.  Home  I  mean.  My  sister's  back 
from  Dresden,  and  I'd  like  you  to  know  her. 
I'm  sure  you'd  get  on." 


THE  BODY  COMES  TO  TOWN     51 

"  Thanks  very  much,  I'd  like  to  come." 
Olva  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  his  hands 
clenched,  his  face  white.  He  must  have  dropped 
the  box  in  the  wood.  He  had  had  it  on  his  walk, 
he  had  lit  his  pipe.  ...  Of  course  they  would 
find  it.  Here  then  was  the  end.  Now  for  the 
first  time  the  horror  of  death  came  upon  him, 
filling  the  room,  turning  it  black,  killing  the  fire, 
the  colour.  His  body  was  frozen  with  horror — 
already  his  throat  was  choking,  his  eyes  burning. 
The  room  swung  slowly  round  him,  turning, 
turning.  "  They  shan't  take  me — they  shan't 
take  me."  His  face  was  cruel,  his  mouth 
twisted.  He  saw  the  little  silver  box  lying 
there,  open,  exposed,  upon  the  grass,  glittering 
against  the  dull  green.  He  turned  to  the  win- 
dow with  desperate,  hunted  eyes.  Already  he 
fancied  that  he  heard  their  steps  upon  the  stair. 
He  stood,  his  body  flung  back,  his  hands  pressing 
upon  the  table.  "  They  shan't  take  me.  .  .  . 
They  shan't  take  me."  The  door  turned,  slowly 
opened.  It  was  Mrs.  Eidge  with  a  duster.  He 
gave  a  little  sigh  and  rolled  over,  tumbling  back 
against  the  chair,  unconscious. 


62  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 


"  There,  sir,  now  I  do  'ope  as  you'll  be  all  right. 
Too  much  book-work,  that's  what  it  is,  but  if  a 
doctor " 

Olva  was  lying  in  his  chair  now,  very  pale,  his 
eyes  closed. 

"  No,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Eidge.  It's  all  right 
now,  thank  you — quite  all  right.  Yes,  I'm 
ready  for  lunch — very  silly  of  me." 

Mrs.  Eidge  departed  to  fetch  the  luncheon- 
dish  from  the  College  kitchens  and  to  tell  the 
porter  Thompson  all  about  it  on  the  way. 
"  Pore  young  gentleman,  there  'e  was  as  you 
might  say  white  as  a  sheet  all  of  a  'eap.  It  gave 
me  a  turn  I  can  assure  you,  Mr.  Thompson." 

His  lunch  was  untasted.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  now  lost  all  power  of  control.  He 
could  only  face  the  inevitable  fact  of  his  ap- 
proaching capture.  The  sudden  discovery  of  the 
loss  of  the  matchbox  had  clanged  the  facts  about 
his  ears  with  the  discordant  scream  of  closing 
gates.  He  was  captured,  caught  irretrievably, 
like  a  rat  in  a  trap.  He  did  not  wish  to  be 
caught  like  a  rat  in  a  trap.  This  was  a  free 
world.  Air,  light,  colour  were  about  him  on 


THE  BODY  COMES  TO  TOTOT       53 

every  side.  To  die,  fighting,  on  a  hill-top,  in  a 
battle-field,  that  was  one  thing.  To  see  them 
crowding  into  his  room,  to  be  dragged  into  a 
dark  airless  place,  to  be  caught  by  the  neck  and 
throttled.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Eidge  cleared  away  the  lunch  with  ranch 
shaking  of  the  head.  Olva  lay  in  his  chair  watch- 
ing, with  eyes  that  never  closed  nor  stirred,  the 
crackling  golden  fire.  Beyond  the  window  the 
world  was  of  blue  steel.  He  could  fancy  the  still 
gleaming  waters  of  the  lake  that  stretched  be- 
yond the  grass  lawns ;  he  could  fancy  the  red 
brick  of  the  buildings  that  clung  like  some  frieze 
to  the  horizon.  Along  the  stone  courtyard 
rang  the  heavy  football  boots  of  men  going  to 
the  Upper  Fields.  He  could  see  their  red  and 
blue  jerseys,  their  short  blue  trousers,  their 
tight  stockings — the  healthy  swing  of  their 
bodies  as  they  tramped.  Men  would  be  going 
down  to  the  river  now — freshmen  would  be 
hearing  reluctantly,  some  of  them  with  tears, 
the  coarse  and  violent  criticism  of  the  Third  Year 
men  who  were  tubbing  them.  All  the  world 
was  moving.  He  was  surrounded,  there  in  his 
silent  room,  with  an  amazing  sense  of  life.  He 
seemed  to  realize,  for  the  first  time,  what  it  was 


64  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

that  Cambridge  was  doing  ...  all  this  physical 
life  marching  through  the  cold  bright  air, 
strength,  poetry,  the  great  stir  and  enthusiasm 
of  the  Young  Blood  of  the  world  .  .  .  and  he, 
waiting  for  those  steps  on  the  stair,  for  those 
grim  faces  in  the  open  door.  The  world  left  him 
alone.  As  the  afternoon  advanced,  the  tramp 
of  the  footballers  was  no  longer  heard,  silence, 
bound  by  the  shining  frost  of  the  beautiful 
day,  lay  about  the  grey  buildings.  Soon  a 
melody  of  thrumming  kettles  would  rise  into 
the  air,  in  every  glowing  room  tea  would  be 
preparing,  the  glorious  luxury  of  rest  after  sting- 
ing exercise  would  fill  the  courts  with  worship, 
unconsciously  driven,  skywards,  to  the  Powers 
of  Health.  And  then,  after  years  of  time,  as  it 
seemed,  faintly  through  the  closed  windows  at 
last  came  the  single  note  of  St.  Martin's  bell. 
That  meant  that  it  was  quarter  to  five.  Almost 
unconsciously  he  rose,  put  on  his  cap  and  gown 
and  passed  through  the  twilit  streets  that  were 
stealing  now  into  a  dim  glow  under  their  misty 
lamps.  The  great  chapel  of  St.  Martin's,  planted 
like  some  couchant  animal  grey  and  mysterious 
against  the  blue  of  the  evening  sky,  flung  through 
its  windows  the  light  of  its  many  candles.  He 


THE   BODY   COMES  TO  TOWN       55 

found  a  seat  at  the  back  of  the  dark  high-hanging 
ante-chapel.  He  was  alone  there.  Towards 
the  inner  chapel  the  white-robed  choir  moved 
softly ;  for  a  moment  the  curtains  were  drawn 
aside  revealing  the  misty  candle-light  within ; 
the  white  choir  passed  through — the  curtains 
fell  again,  leaving  Olva  alone  with  only  the  great 
golden  trumpeting  angels  above  the  organ  for  his 
company. 

Then  great  peace  came  upon  him.  Some  one 
had  taken  his  soul,  softly,  with  gentle  hands, 
and  was  caring  for  it.  He  was  suddenly  freed 
from  responsibility,  and  as  the  soothing  comfort 
stole  about  him  he  knew  that  now  he  had  simply 
to  wait  to  be  shown  what  it  was  that  he  must  do. 
This  was  not  the  strange  indifference  of  yester- 
day, nor  the  physical  strength  of  the  morning 
.  .  .  peace,  such  peace  as  he  had  never  before 
known,  had  come  to  him.  Prom  the  heart  of 
the  darkness  up  into  the  glowing  beauty  of  the 
high  roof  the  music  rose.  It  was  Wednesday 
afternoon  and  the  voices  were  unaccompanied. 
Soon  the  "  Insanse  et  Vanae  "  climbed  in  wave 
after  wave  of  melody,  was  caught,  held,  lingered 
in  the  air,  softly  died  again. 

Olva  was  detached — he  saw  his  body  beaten, 


56  THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

imprisoned,  tortured,  killed.    But  he  was  not 
there.    He  was  riding  heaven  in  qnest  of  God. 


At  the  gates  of  his  college  the  news  met  him. 
He  had  been  waiting  for  it  so  long  a  time  that 
now  he  had  to  act  his  horror.  It  seemed  to  him 
an  old,  old  story — this  tale  of  a  murder  in  Sannet 
Wood. 

Groups  of  men  were  waiting  in  the  cloisters, 
waiting  for  the  doors  to  open  for  "  Hall."  As 
Olva  came  towards  the  gates  an  undergraduate, 
white,  breathless,  brushed  past  him  and  burst 
into  the  quiet,  murmuring  groups. 

"  My  God,  have  you  heard  1 " 

Olva  passed  through  the  iron  gates.  The 
groups  broke.  He  had  the  impression  of  many 
men  standing  back — black  in  the  dim  light — 
waiting,  listening. 

There  was  an  instant's  silence.  Then,  the 
man's  voice  breaking  into  a  shrill  scream,  the 
news  came  tumbling  out.  It  seemed  to  flash  a 
sudden  glare  upon  the  blackness. 

"  It's  Carfax — Carfax — he's  been  murdered." 

The  word  was  tossed,  caught,  flung  against  the 


-   THE  BODY  COMES  TO  TOWN   67 

stone  pillars — "  Murdered  !  Murdered  !  Mur- 
dered ! » 

"  They've  just  brought  his  body  in  now,  found 
it  in  Sannet  Wood  this  evening ;  a  working  man 
found  it.  Been  there  two  days.  His  neck 
broken " 

The  mysterious  groups  scattered  into  strange 
fantastic  shapes.  There  was  a  pause  and  then  a 
hundred  voices  began  at  once.  Some  one  spoke 
to  Olva  and  he  answered ;  his  voice  low  and 
stern.  ...  On  every  side  confusion. 

But  for  himself,  like  steel  armour  encasing  his 
body,  was  the  strange  calm — aloof,  unmoved, 
dispassionate — that  had  come  to  him  half  an 
hour  ago. 

He  was  alone — like  God, 


I 


CHAPTEE    IV 

MARGARET  CRAVEN 

1 

T  is  essential  to  the  maintenance  of  the  Cam-  v 
bridge  spirit  that  there  should  be  no  melo- 
drama. Into  that  placid  and  speculative  air 
real  life  tumbles  with  a  resounding  shock  and 
the  many  souls  that  have  been  building,  these 
many  years,  with  careful  elaboration,  walls  of 
defence  and  protection  find  themselves  suddenly 
naked  and  indecent  before  the  world.  For  that 
army  of  men  who  use  Cambridge  as  a  gate  to  the 
world  in  front  of  them  the  passage  through  the 
narrow  streets  is  too  swift  to  afford  more  in  after 
life  than  a  pleasant  reminiscence.  It  is  because 
Cambridge  is  the  bridge  between  stern  discipline 
and  pleasant  freedom  that  it  is  so  happily 
remembered ;  but  there  are  those  who  adopt 
Cambridge  as  their  abiding  home,  and  it  is  for 
these  that  real  life  is  impossible. 

Beneath  these  grey  walls  as  the  years  pass 
slowly   the  illusions  grow.     Closer  and    closer 


MAEGAEET   CBAVEET  69 

creep  the  walls  of  experience,  softer  and  thicker 
are  the  garments  worn  to  keep  out  the  cold, 
gentler  and  gentler  are  the  speculations  born  of  a 
good  old  Port  and  a  knowledge  of  the  Greek 
language.  About  the  High  Tables  voices  softly 
dispute  the  turning  of  a  phrase,  eyes  mildly  salute 
the  careful  dishes  of  a  wisely  chosen  cook,  gentle 
patronage  is  bestowed  upon  the  wild  ruffian  of  the 
outer  world.  Many  bells  ring,  many  fires  are 
burning,  many  lamps  are  lit,  many  leaves  of 
many  books  are  turned — busily,  busily  hands 
are  raising  walls  of  self-defence ;  the  world  at 
first  regretted,  then  patronized,  is  now  forgotten 
.  .  .  hush,  he  sleeps,  his  feet  in  slippers,  his 
head  upon  the  softest  cushion,  his  hand  still 
covering  the  broad  page  of  his  dictionary.  .  .  . 
Nothing,  not  birth  nor  love,  nor  death  must  dis- 
turb his  repose. 

And  here,  in  the  heart  of  the  Sannet  Wood,  is 
death  from  violence,  death,  naked,  crude,  re- 
moved from  all  sense  of  life  as  we  know  it.  The 
High  Tables  avoid  Carfax's  body  with  all  possi- 
ble discretion  ;  for  an  hour  or  two  the  Port  has 
lost  its  flavour,  Homer  is  hidden  by  a  cloud,  the 
gentle  chatter  is  curtailed  and  silenced.  Amongst 
the  lower  order — those  wild  and  turbulent  under- 


60  THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

graduates — it  is  the  only  topic.  Carfax  is  very 
generally  known ;  he  had  ridden,  he  had  rowed, 
he  had  played  cricket.  A  member  of  the  only 
sporting  clnb  in  the  University,  he  had  been 
known  as  a  "  real  sportsman  and  a  damned  good 
fellow "  because  he  was  often  drunk  and  fre- 
quently spent  an  evening  in  London  .  .  .  and 
now  he  is  dead. 

In  Saul's  a  number  of  very  young  spirits  awake 
to  the  consciousness  of  death.  Here  is  a  red- 
faced  hearty  fellow  as  fit  as  anything  one  mo- 
ment and  dead  the  next.  Never  before  had  the 
fact  been  faced  that  this  might  happen  to  any 
one.  Let  the  High  Table  dismiss  it  easily,  it  is 
none  so  simple  for  those  who  have  not  had  time 
to  build  up  those  defending  walls.  For  a  day 
or  two  there  is  a  hush  about  the  place,  voices  are 
soft,  men  talk  in  groups,  the  mystery  is  the  one 
sensation.  .  .  .  The  time  passes,  there  are  other 
interests,  once  more  the  High  Table  can  taste 
its  wine.  Death  is  again  bundled  into  noisier 
streets,  into  a  harder,  shriller  air.  .  .  . 

2 

Olva,  on  the  morning  after  the  discovery  of  the 
body,  heard  from  Mrs.  Ridge  speculations  as  to 


MAEGAEET   CEAVEN  «1 

the  probable  criminal.  "  You  take  my  word, 
Mr.  Dune,  sir,  it  was  one  of  them  there  nasty 
tramps — always  'anging  round  they  are,  and  Miss 
Annett  was  only  yesterday  speakin'  to  me  of  a 
nasty  feller  comin'  round  to  their  back  door  and 
askin'  for  bread,  weren't  you,  Miss  Annett  t  " 

"I  was,  indeed,  Mrs.  Eidge." 

"  And  'im  with  the  nastiest  'eavy  blue  jaw 
you  ever  saw  on  a  man,  'adn't  'e,  Miss  Annett  f  " 

"  He  had,  indeed,  Mrs.  Eidge." 

"Ah,  I  shouldn't  wonder — nasty-sort-o'-look- 
ing  feller.  And  that  Sannet  Wood  too — nasty 
lonely  place  with  its  old  stones  and  all — com- 
fortable T— I  don't  think." 

Olva  made  inquiries  as  to  the  stones. 

"  Why,  ever  so  old,  they  say — before  Christ, 
I've  'eard.  Used  to  cut  up  'uman  flesh  and  eat 
it  like  the  pore  natives,  and  there's  a  ugly  lookin' 
stone  in  that  very  wood  where  they  did  it  too, 
or  so  I've  'eard.  Would  you  go  along  that  way 
in  the  dark,  Miss  Annett  ?  " 

"  Not  much — I  grant  you,  Mrs.  Eidge." 

"  Oh  yes  !  not  likely  on  a  dark  night,  I  don't 
think  ! — and  that  pore  Mr.  Carfax — well,  all  I 
say  is,  I  'opes  they  catch  'im,  that's  all  I  say  .  .  ." 
with  further  reminiscence  concerning  Mrs.  Birch 


62     THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTTJEE 

who  had  worked  on  Carfax's  staircase  the  last  ten 
years  and  never  "  'ad  no  kind  of  Inck.  There  was 
that  Mr.  Oliver " 

Final  dismissal  of  Mrs.  Eidge  and  Miss  Annett. 

Meanwhile,  strange  enough  the  relief  that  he 
felt  because  the  body  was  actually  removed  from 
that  wood.  No  longer  possible  now  to  see  it 
lying  there  with  the  leg  bent  underneath,  the 
head  falling  straight  back,  the  ring  on  the  finger. 
.  .  .  Curious,  too,  that  the  matchbox  had  not 
been  discovered ;  they  must  have  searched 
pretty  thoroughly  by  now — perhaps  after  all 
it  had  not  been  dropped  there. 

But  over  him  there  had  fallen  a  strange  lassi- 
tude. He  was  outside,  beyond  it  all. 

And  then  Craven  came  to  see  him.  The  event 
had  wrought  in  the  boy  a  great  change.  It  was 
precisely  with  a  character  like  Craven's  that  such 
an  incident  must  cleave  a  division  between  youth 
and  manhood.  He  had,  until  last  evening,  con- 
sidered nothing  for  himself ;  his  father's  death 
had  occurred  when  he  was  too  young  to  see 
anything  in  it  but  a  perfectly  natural  removal  of 
some  one  immensely  old.  The  world  had  seemed 
the  easiest,  the  simplest  of  places,  his  years  at 
Eugby  had  been  delightfully  free  from  shocks 


MAEGAEET   CRAVEN  63 

of  any  kind.  Good  health,  friendship,  a  little 
learning,  these  things  had  made  the  days  pass 
swiftly.  Rupert  Craven  had  been  yesterday,  a 
child  precisely  typical  of  the  system  in  which 
he  had  been  drilled ;  now  he  was  something 
different.  Olva  knew  that  he  was  capable  of 
depths  of  feeling  because  of  his  extraordinary 
devotion  to  his  sister.  Craven  had  often  spoken 
of  her  to  Olva — "  So  different  from  me,  the  most 
brilliant  person  in  the  world.  Her  music  is 
really  wonderful — people  who  know,  I  mean, 
all  say  so.  But  you  see  we're  the  same  age — 
only  two  of  us.  We've  always  been  everything 
to  one  another." 

Olva  wondered  why  Craven  had  told  him. 
It  was  not  as  though  they  had  ever  been  very 
intimate,  but  Craven  seemed  to  think  that  Olva 
and  his  sister  would  have  much  in  common. 

Olva  wondered,  as  he  looked  at  Craven  stand- 
ing there  in  the  doorway,  how  this  sister  would 
take  the  change  in  her  brother.  He  had  sud- 
denly, as  he  looked  at  Craven,  a  perception 
of  the  number  of  lives  with  whose  course  his 
action  had  involved  him.  The  wheel  was 
beginning  to  turn.  .  .  . 

The  light  had  gone  from  Craven's  eyes.    His 


64:     THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

vitality  and  energy  had  slipped  from  Mm,  leav- 
ing his  body  heavy,  unalert.  He  seemed,  above 
all,  puzzled,  awed ;  there  were  dark  lines  under 
his  eyes,  his  cheeks  were  pale  and  his  mouth  had 
lost  its  tendency  to  smile,  its  lines  were  heavy ; 
but,  above  all,  his  expression  was  interrogative. 
Finally,  he  was  puzzled. 

For  an  instant,  as  he  looked  at  him,  Olva  felt 
that  he  could  not  face  him,  then  with  a  de- 
liberate summoning  of  the  resources  of  his 
temperament  he  strung  himself  to  whatever  the 
day  might  bring  forth. 

"This  is  awful " 

"  Yes." 

"  Of  course  it  doesn't  matter  to  yon,  Dune, 
as  it  does  to  me,  but  I  knew  the  fellow  so  awfully 
well.  It's  horrible,  horrible.  That  he  should 
have  died — like  that." 

Olva  broke  out  suddenly.  "  After  all  not 
such  a  bad  way  to  die — swift  enough.  I  don't 
suppose  Carfax  valued  life  especially." 

"  Oh !  he  enjoyed  it — enjoyed  it  like  any- 
thing. And  that  it  should  be  taken  so  trivially, 
for  no  reason  at  all.  It  seems  to  be  almost 
certain  that  it  was  some  tramp  or  other — 
robbery  the  motive  probably,  and  then  he  was 


MAEGAEET   CEAVEN  65 

startled  and  left  the  money — it  was  all  lying 
about  on  the  grass.  But  then  Carfax  was 
mixed  up  with  so  many  ruffians  of  one  kind  and 
another.  It  may  have  been  revenge  or  anything. 
I  believe  they  are  searching  the  wood  now, 

but  they're  not  likely  to  bring  it  home  to  any- 

- 

one.  Misty  day,  no  one  about,  and  the  man 
simply  used  his  fist  apparently — he  must  have 
been  most  awfully  strong.  Have  you  ever 
heard  of  any  one  killing  a  man  with  one  blow — 
except  a  prize-fighter  T  " 

"  It's  simply  a  knack,  I  believe,  if  you  catch 
a  fellow  in  a  certain  spot." 

Supposing  that  some  wretched  tramp  were 
arrested  and  accused  ?  Some  dirty  fellow  from 
behind  a  hedge  ?  All  the  tramps,  all  the  ruffians 
of  the  world  were  now  a  danger.  The  accusa- 
tion of  another  would  bring  the  truth  from  him 
of  course.  His  dark  eyes  moved  across  the 
room  to  Craven's  white,  tired  face.  Within 
himself  there  moved  now  with  every  hour 
stirring  more  acutely  this  desire  for  life.  If 
only  they  would  let  him  alone  ...  let  the  body 
alone  ...  let  it  all  alone.  Let  the  world 
sink  back  to  its  earlier  apathy. 

His  voice  wag  resentful. 

w 


66  THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

"  Carfax  wasn't  a  good  fellow,  Craven.  No, 
I  know — Nil  nisi  bonum  .  .  .  and  all  the  rest 
of  it.  But  it  looks  a  bit  like  a  judgment — 
judgment  from  Heaven." 

Craven  broke  in. 

"  But  now — just  now  when  his  body's  lying 
there.  I  know  there  were  things  he  did.  He 
was  a  bit  wild,  of  course " 

"  Yes,  there  was  a  girl,  a  girl  in  Midgett's 
tobacconist's  shop — his  daughter.  Carfax 
ruined  her,  body  and  soul  .  .  .  ruined  her. 
He  boasted  of  it.  Looks  like  a  judgment." 

"  I  don't  care."  Craven  sprang  up.  "  Car- 
fax may  have  done  things,  but  he  was  a  friend 
of  mine,  and  a  good  friend.  They  must  catch 
the  man,  they  must.  It's  a  duty  they  owe  us 
all.  To  have  such  a  man  as  that  hanging  about. 
Why  it  might  happen  to  any  of  us.  You  must 
help  me,  Dune  t  " 

"  Help  you  !  " 

"  Yes — help  them  to  catch  the  murderer. 
We  must  think  of  everything  that  could  make 
a  clue.  Perhaps  this  girl.  I  had  heard  some- 
thing about  her,  of  course ;  but  perhaps  there 
was  another  lover,  a  rival  or  something,  or  perhaps 
her  father " 


MAEGAEET   CEAVEtf  67 

"  Well,"  Dune  said  slowly,  "  my  advice 
to  yon,  Craven,  is  not  to  think  too  much  about 
the  whole  business.  A  thing  like  that  is  certain 
to  get  on  one's  nerves — leave  it  alone  as  much 
as  you  can " 

"  What  a  funny  chap  you  are !  You're 
always  like  that.  As  detached  from  every- 
thing as  though  you  weren't  alive  at  all. 
Why,  I  believe,  if  you'd  committed  the  murder 
yourself  you  wouldn't  be  much  more  concerned  ! " 

"  Well,  we've  got  to  go  on  as  we're  made,  I 
suppose,  only  do  take  my  advice  about  not 
getting  morbid  over  it.  By  the  way,  I  see  I'm 
playing  against  St.  Martin's  this  afternoon." 

"  Yes.  I  thought  at  first  I  wouldn't  play. 
But  I  suppose  it's  better  to  go  on  doing  one's 
ordinary  things.  You're  coming  in  to-night, 
aren't  you  ?  " 

"  Are  you  sure  you  want  me  after  all  this  dis- 
turbance t " 

"  Why,  of  course ;  my  mother's  expecting 
you.  Half-past  seven.  Don't  dress."  He 
raised  his  arms  above  his  head,  yawning.  He 
was  obviously  better  for  the  talk.  His  eyes  were 
less  strained,  his  body  more  alert.  "  I'm  tired 
to  death.  Didn't  get  a  wink  of  sleep  last  night 


68     THE  PEELTJDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

— saw  poor  Carfax  in  the  dark — ugh  !    Well,  we 
meet  this  afternoon." 

When  the  door  closed  Olva  had  the  sensation 
of  having  been  on  his  trial.  Craven's  eyes  still 
followed  him.  Nerves,  of  course  .  .  .  but  they 
had  strangely  reminded  him  of  Bunker. 

3 

Olva  had  never  been  to  Craven's  house  before. 
It  stood  in  a  little  street  that  joined  Cambridge 
to  the  country.  At  one  end  of  the  prim  little 
road  the  lamps  stopped  abruptly  and  a  white 
chalk  path  ran  amongst  dark  common  to  a 
distant  wood. 

At  the  other  end  a  broader  road  with  tram- 
lines crossed.  The  house  was  built  by  itself,  back 
from  the  highway,  with  a  tiny  drive  and  some 
dark  laurels.  It  was  always  gloomy  and  appar- 
ently unkept.  The  autumn  leaves  were  dull 
and  sodden  upon  the  drive ;  the  bell  and 
knocker  upon  the  heavy  door,  from  which  the 
paint  was  worn  in  places,  were  rusty.  No  sound 
came  from  the  little  road  beyond. 

The  place  seemed  absolutely  without  life. 
Olva  now,  as  he  sent  the  bell  pealing  through  the 
passages,  knew  that  this  dark  desertion  had  an 


MAEGAEET   CBAVEff  69 

effect  upon  his  nerves.  A  week  ago  he  would 
not  have  noticed  the  place  at  all — now  he 
longed  for  lights  and  noise  and  company.  He 
had  played  football  that  afternoon  better  than 
ever  before ;  that,  too,  had  been  a  defence 
almost  a  protest,  an  assertion  of  his  right  to  live. 
As  he  waited  his  thoughts  pursued  him. 
He  had  heard  them  say  to-night  that  no  clue 
had  been  discovered,  that  the  police  were  entirely 
at  a  loss.  It  was  impossible  to  trace  footmarks 
amongst  all  that  undergrowth.  No  one  had  been 
seen  in  that  direction  during  the  hours  when  the 
murder  must  have  been  committed  ...  so  on — 
so  on  ...  all  this  talk,  this  discussion.  The 
wretched  man  was  dead — no  one  would  miss 
him — no  one  cared — leave  him  alone,  leave  him 
alone.  Olva  pulled  the  bell  again  furiously. 
Why  couldn't  they  come  f  He  wanted  to 
escape  from  this  dark  and  dismal  'drive ;  these 
hanging  laurels,  the  cold  little  road,  with  its 
chilly  lamps.  An  old  and  tottering  woman, 
her  nose  nearly  touching  her  chin  and  her 
fingers  in  black  mittens,  opened  at  last  and  led 
Olva  into  the  very  blackest  and  closest  little 
hall  that  he  had  ever  encountered.  The  air 
was  thick  and  musty  with  a  strangely  mingled 


TO  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

smell  of  burning  wood,  of  faded  pot-pourri,  of 
dried  skins.  The  ceiling  was  low  and  black,  and 
the  only  window  was  one  of  a  dull  red  glass 
that  glimmered  mournfully  at  a  distance.  The 
walls  were  hung  with  the  strangest  things, 
prizes  apparently  that  the  late  Dr.  Craven  had 
secured  in  China — grinning  heathen  gods,  un- 
couth weapons,  dried  skins  of  animals.  Out  of 
this  dark  little  hall  Olva  was  led  into  a  drawing- 
room  that  was  itself  nearly  as  obscure.  Here  the 
ceiling  was  higher,  but  the  place  square  and 
dark ;  a  deep  set  stone  fireplace  in  which  logs  were 
burning  was  the  most  obvious  thing  there.  For 
the  rest  the  floor  seemed  littered  with  old  twisted 
tables,  odd  chairs  with  carved  legs,  here  a  plate 
with  sea  shells,  here  a  glass  case  with  some  pieces 
of  ribbon,  old  rusty  coins,  silver  ornaments. 
There  were  many  old  prints  upon  the  walls, 
landscapes,  some  portraits,  and  stuck  here  and 
there  elaborate  arrangements  of  silk  and  ribbon 
and  paper  fans  and  coloured  patterns.  Opposite 
the  dark  diamond-paned  window  was  an  old 
gilt  mirror  that  seemed  to  catch  all  the  room 
into  its  dusty  and  faded  reflections,  and  to  make 
what  was  old  and  tattered  enough  already,  doubly 
dreary.  The  room  had  the  close  and  musty  air 


MAEGAEET    CEAVEN  71 

of  the  hall  as  though  windows  were  but  seldom 
opened  j  there  was  a  scent  as  though  oranges  had 
recently  been  eaten  there. 

At  first  Olva  had  thought  that  he  was  alone 
in  the  room ;  then  when  his  eyes  had  grown 
more  accustomed  to  the  light  he  saw,  sitting 
in  a  high-backed  chair,  motionless,  gazing  into  the 
fire,  with  her  fine  white  hands  lying  in  her  lap, 
a  lady.  She  reminded  him,  in  that  first  vision 
of  her,  of  "  Phiz's "  pictures  of  Mrs.  Clennam 
in  Little  Dorrit,  and  always  afterwards  that  con- 
nection remained  with  him.  Her  thin,  spare 
figure  had  something  intense,  almost  burning, 
in  its  immobility,  in  the  deep  black  of  her  dress 
and  hair,  in  the  white  sharpness  of  the  outline 
of  her  face. 

How  admirably,  it  seemed  to  him,  she  suited 
that  room.  She  too  may  have  thought  as  she 
turned  slowly  to  look  at  him  that  he  fitted  his 
background,  with  the  spare  dignity  of  his 
figure,  his  fine  eyes,  the  black  and  white  con- 
trast of  his  body  so  that  his  cheeks,  his  hands, 
seemed  almost  to  shine  against  the  faded  air. 
It  is  certain  that  they  recognized  at  once  some 
common  ground  so  that  they  met  as  though  they 
had  known  one  another  for  many  years.  The 


72  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

old  mirror  caught  for  a  moment  the  fine  gravity 
and  silence  of  his  approach  to  her  as  he  waited 
for  her  to  greet  him. 

But  before  she  could  speak  to  him  the  door 
had  opened  and  Margaret  Craven  entered.  In 
her  gravity,  her  silence,  she  seemed  at  once  to 
claim  kinship  with  them  both.  She  had  the 
black  hair,  the  pale  face,  the  sharp  outline  of 
her  mother.  As  she  came  quietly  towards  them 
her  reserve  was  wonderful,  but  there  was  tender- 
ness in  the  soft  colour  of  her  eyes,  in  the  lines 
of  her  mouth  that  made  her  also  beautiful.  But 
beyond  the  tenderness  there  was  also  an  energy 
that  made  every  move  seem  like  an  attack. 
In  spite  of  her  reserve  there  was  impatience,  and 
Olva's  first  judgment  of  her  was  that  the  last 
thing  in  the  world  that  she  could  endure  was 
muddle  ;  she  shone  with  the  clean-cut  decision 
of  fine  steel. 

Mrs.  Craven  spoke  without  rising  from  her 
chair. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Dune.  Eupert 
has  often  told  us  about  you." 

Margaret  advanced  to  him  and  held  out  her 
hand.  She  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"  We  have  met  before,  you  know." 


MAEGAEET  CEAVEN  73 

"I  had  not  forgotten,"  he  answered  her 
gravely. 

Then  Eupert  came  in.  It  was  strange  how 
one  saw  now,  when  he  stood  beside  his  mother 
and  sister,  that  he  had  some  of  their  quality  of 
stern  reserve.  He  had  always  seemed  to  Olva  a 
perfectly  ordinary  person  of  natural  good  health 
and  good  temper,  and  now  this  quality  that  had 
descended  upon  him  increased  the  fresh  atten- 
tion that  he  had  already  during  these  last  two 
days  demanded.  For  something  beyond  ques- 
tion the  Carfax  affair  must  be  held  responsible. 
It  seemed  now  to  be  the  only  thing  that  could 
hold  his  mind.  He  spoke  very  little,  but  his 
white  face,  his  tired  eyes,  his  listless  conversation, 
showed  the  occupation  of  his  mind.  It  was 
indeed  a  melancholy  evening. 

To  Olva,  his  nerves  being  already  on  edge,  it 
was  almost  intolerable.  They  passed  from  the 
drawing-room  into  a  tiny  dining-room — a  room 
that  was  as  dingy  and  faded  as  the  rest,  with  a 
dull  red  paper  on  the  walls  and  an  old  blue 
carpet.  The  old  woman  waited ;  the  food  was 
of  the  simplest. 

Mrs.  Graven  scarcely  spoke  at  all.  She  sat 
with  her  eyes  gravely  fixed  in  front  of  her,  save 


74  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

when  she  raised  them  to  flash  them  for  an 
instant  at  Olva.  He  found  this  sudden  gaze 
extraordinarily  disconcerting ;  it  was  as  though 
she  were  reasserting  her  claim  to  some  common 
understanding  that  existed  between  them,  to 
some  secret  that  belonged  to  them  alone. 

They  avoided,  for  the  most  part,  Carfax's  death, 
Once  Margaret  Craven  said :  "  One  of  the  most 
astonishing  things  about  anything  of  this  kind 
seems  to  me  the  bravery  of  the  murderer — 
the  bravery  I  mean  that  is  demanded  of  any  one  \ 
during  the  days  between  the  crime  and  his 
arrest.  To  be  in  possession  of  that  tremendous 
secret,  to  be  at  war,  as  it  were,  with  the  world, 
and  yet  to  lead,  in  all  probability,  an  ordinary 
life — that  demands  courage." 

"  One  may  accustom  oneself  to  anything," 
Mrs.  Craven  said.  Her  voice  was  deep  and 
musical,  and  her  words  seemed  to  linger  almost 
like  an  echo  in  the  air. 

Olva  thought  as  he  looked  at  Margaret  Craven 
that  there  was  a  strength  there  that  could  face 
anything ;  it  was  more  than  courage ;  it  might, 
under  certain  circumstances,  become  fanaticism. 
But  he  knew  that  whereas  Mrs.  Craven  stirred 
in  him  a  deep  restlessness  and  disquiet,  Margaret 


MAEGAEET   CEAVEN  75 

Craven  quieted  and  soothed  him,  almost,  it 
seemed,  deliberately,  as  though  she  knew  that 
he  was  in  trouble. 

He  said :  "  I  should  think  that  his  worst 
enemy,  if  he  have  any  imagination  at  all,  must 
be  his  loneliness.  I  can  conceive  that  the 
burden  of  the  secret,  even  though  there  be  no 
chance  whatever  of  discovery,  must  make  that 
loneliness  intolerable." 

Here  Eupert  Craven  interrupted  as  though 
he  were  longing  to  break  away  from  the  subject. 

"  You  played  the  finest  game  of  your  life  this 
afternoon,  Dune.  I  never  saw  anything  like 
that  last  try  of  yours.  Whymper  was  on  the 
touch-line — I  saw  him.  The  'Varsity's  certain 
to  try  you  again  on  Saturday." 

"  I've  been  slack  too  long,"  Olva  said,  laugh- 
ing. "  I  never  enjoyed  anything  more  than  this 
afternoon." 

"  I  played  the  most  miserable  game  I've  ever 
played  in  my  life — couldn't  get  this  beastly 
thing  out  of  my  head." 

Olva  felt  as  though  he  were  almost  at  the  end 
of  his  endurance.  At  that  moment  he  thought 
that  he  would  have  preferred  them  to  burst  the 
doors  and  arrest  him.  He  had  never  known 


76  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

such  fatigue.  If  he  could  sleep  he  did  not  care 
what  happened  to  him. 

The  rest  of  the  evening  seemed  a  dream.  The 
dark,  crowded  drawing-room  flickered  in  the 
light  from  the  crackling  fire.  Mrs.  Craven,  in 
her  stiff  chair,  never  moving  her  eyes,  flung 
huge  shadows  on  the  walls.  Some  curtain  blew 
drearily,  with  little  secret  taps,  against  the 
door.  Eupert  Craven  sat  moodily  in  a  dark 
corner. 

At  Olva's  request  Margaret  Craven  played. 
The  piano  was  old  and  needed  attention,  but 
he  thought  that  he  had  never  heard  finer  playing. 
First  she  gave  him  some  modern  things — some 
Debussy,  Les  Miroires  of  Eavel,  some  of  the 
Eussian  ballet  music  of  CUopatre.  These  she 
flung  at  him,  fiercely,  aggressively,  playing  them 
as  though  she  would  wring  cries  of  protest  from 
the  very  notes. 

"  There,"  she  cried  when  she  had  finished, 
flashing  a  look  that  was  almost  indignant  at 
him.  "  There  is  your  modern  stuff — I  can  give 
you  more  of  it." 

"  I  would  like  something  better  now,"  he  said 
gravely. 

Without  a  word  that  mood  left  her.    In  the 


MAEGAEET   CEAVEN  77 

dim  candle-light  her  eyes  were  tender  again. 
Very  softly  she  played  the  first  two  movements 
of  the  "  Moonlight  "  sonata. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  mood  for  the  last  movement," 
she  said,  and  closed  the  piano.  Still  about  the 
old  silver,  the  dark  walls,  the  log  fire,  the  old 
gilt  mirror,  the  sweet,  delicate  notes  lingered. 

Soon  afterwards  he  left  them.  As  he  passed 
down  the  chill,  deserted  street,  abandoning 
the  dark  laurelled  garden,  he  saw  behind  him 
the  stern  shadow  of  Mrs.  Craven  black  upon  the 
wall. 

But  the  loneliness,  the  unrest,  walked  be- 
hind him.  Silence  was  beginning  to  be  terrible. 
God — this  God — this  Unknown  God — pursued 
!,  him.  Only  a  little  comfort  out  of  the  very 
}  heart  of  that  great  pursuing  shadow  came  to 
ihim — Margaret  Craven's  grave  and  tender  eyes. 


CHAPTEE    V 

STONE  ALTAES 


was  buried.  There  had  been  an 
inquest ;  certain  tramps  and  wanderers 
had  been  arrested,  examined  and  dismissed. 
No  discovery  had  been  made,  and  a  verdict  of 
"  Wilful  murder  against  some  person  or  persons 
unknown  "  had  been  returned.  It  was  generally 
felt  that  Carfax's  life  had  not  been  of  the  most 
savoury  and  that  there  were,  in  all  probability, 
amongst  the  back  streets  of  Cambridge  several 
persons  who  had  owed  him  a  grudge.  He 
appeared,  indeed,  in  the  discoveries  that  were  now 
made  on  every  side,  to  be  something  better  dead 
than  alive.  A  stout  and  somnolent  gentleman, 
with  red  cheeks  and  eyes  half  closed,  was  the 
only  mourner  from  the  outside  world  at  the 
funeral.  This,  it  appeared,  was  an  uncle. 
Father  dead,  mother  divorced  and  leading  a 
pleasant  existence  amongst  the  capitals  of 

78 


STONE  ALTAES  79 

Europe.  The  uncle,  although  maintaining  a 
decent  appearance  of  grief,  was  obviously,  at 
heart,  relieved  to  be  rid  of  his  nephew  so  easily. 
Poor  Carfax !  For  so  rubicund  and  noisy  a 
person  he  left  strangely  little  mark  upon  the 
world.  Within  a  fortnight  the  college  had 
nearly  lost  account  of  his  existence.  He  lent 
to  Sannet  Wood  a  sinister  air  that  caused 
numberless  undergraduates  to  cycle  out  in  that 
direction.  Now  and  again,  when  conversation 
flagged,  some  one  revived  the  subject.  But  it 
was  a  horse  that  needed  much  whipping  to 
make  it  go.  It  had  kicked  with  its  violent  hoof 
upon  the  soft  walls  of  Cambridge  life.  For  a 
moment  it  had  seemed  that  it  would  force  its 
way,  but  the  impression  had  been  of  the 
slightest. 

Even  within  the  gates  and  courts  of  Saul's  itself 
the  impression  that  Carfax  had  left  faded  with 
surprising  swiftness  into  a  melodramatic  memory. 
But  nothing  could  have  been  more  remarkable 
than  the  resolute  determination  of  these  young 
men  to  push  grim  facts  away.  They  were  not 
made — one  could  hear  it  so  eloquently  explained 
— for  that  kind  of  tragedy.  The  autumn  air,  the 
furious  exercise,  the  hissing  kettles,  the  decent 


80  THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

and  amiable  discussions  on  Life  reduced  to  the 
importance  of  a  Greek  Accent — these  things 
rejected  violently  the  absurdity  of  Tragic 
Crudity. 

They  were  quite  right,  these  young  men.  They 
paid  their  shining  pounds  for  the  capture — con- 
scious or  not  as  it  might  be — of  an  atmosphere, 
a  delicate  and  gentle  setting  to  the  crudity  of  their 
later  life.  Carfax,  when  alive,  had  blundered 
into  coarse  disaster  but  had  blundered  in  back 
streets.  Now  the  manner  of  his  death  painted 
him  in  shrieking  colours.  The  harmony  was 
disturbed,  therefore  he  must  go. 

Of  more  importance  to  this  world  of  Saul's 
was  the  strange  revival — as  though  from  the 
dead — of  Olva  Dune.  They  had  been  prepared, 
many  of  them,  for  some  odd  development,  but 
this  perfectly  normal,  healthy  interest  in  the 
affairs  of  the  College  was  the  last  thing  that  his 
grave,  romantic  air  could  ever  have  led  any  one 
to  expect.  His  football  in  the  first  place  opened 
wide  avenues  of  speculation.  First  there  had 
been  the  College  game,  then  there  had  been  the 
University  match  against  the  Harlequins,  and 
it  was,  admittedly,  a  very  long  time  since  any 
one  had  seen  anything  like  it.  He  had  seemed, 


STONE   ALTAES  81 

in  that  game  against  the  Harlequins,  to  possess 
every  virtue  that  should  belong  to  the  ideal 
three-quarter — pace,  swerve,  tackle,  and  through 
them  all  the  steady  working  of  the  brain. 
Nevertheless  those  earlier  games  were  yet  re- 
membered against  him,  and  it  was  confidently 
said  that  this  brilliance,  with  a  man  of  Dune's 
temperament,  could  not  possibly  last.  But, 
nevertheless,  the  expectation  of  his  success 
brought  him  up,  with  precipitation,  against  the 
personality  of  Cardillac,  and  it  was  this  implied 
rivalry  that  agitated  the  College.  It  is  only  in 
one's  second  year  that  a  matter  of  this  kind  can 
assume  world-shaking  importance.  The  First- 
year  Undergraduate  is  too  near  the  child,  the 
Third-year  Undergraduate  too  near  the  man. 
For  the  First-year  man  School,  for  the  Third-year 
man  the  World  looms  too  heavily.  So  it  is 
from  the  men  of  the  Second  year  that  the  leaders 
are  to  be  selected,  and  at  this  time  in  Saul's 
Cardillac  seemed  to  have  no  rival.  He  com- 
bined, to  an  admirable  degree,  the  man  of  the 
world  and  the  sportsman ;  he  had  an  air  that 
was  beyond  rubies.  He  was  elegant  without 
being  effeminate,  arrogant  without  being  con- 
ceited, indifferent  without  being  blase*.  He  had 

a 


82  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

learnt,  at  Eton,  and  at  the  knee  of  a  rich  and 
charming  mother,  that  to  be  crude  was  the 
unforgivable  sin.  He  worshipped  the  god  of 
good  manners  and  would  have  made  an  admirable 
son  of  the  great  Lord  Chesterfield.  Finally  he 
was  the  only  man  in  Saul's  who  had  any  "  air  " 
at  all,  and  he  had  already  travelled  round  the 
world  and  been  introduced  by  his  mother  to 
Eoyalty  at  Marienbad. 

The  only  man  who  could  ever  have  claimed 
any  possible  rivalry  was  Dune,  and  Dune  had 
seemed  determined,  until  now,  to  avoid  any- 
thing of  the  kind.  Suddenly  the  situation  leapt 
upon  the  startled  eyes  of  the  attentive  world. 
Possibility  of  excitement.  .  .  . 


2 


Olva,  himself,  was  entirely  unconcerned  by  this 
threatened  rivalry.  He  was  being  driven,  by 
impulses  that  he  understood  only  too  well, 
into  the  noisiest  life  that  he  could  manage  to 
find  about  him.  The  more  noise  the  better; 
he  had  only  a  cold  fear  at  his  heart  that,  after 
all,  it  would  penetrate  his  dreaded  loneliness  too 


STONE  ALTAES  83 

little,  let  it  be  as  loud  a  noise  as  he  could  possibly 
summon. 

He  had  not  now — and  this  was  the  more 
terrible — any  consciousness  of  Carfax  at  all ; 
there  was  waiting  for  him,  lurking,  beast-like, 
until  its  inevitable  moment,  something  far  more 
terrible. 

Meanwhile  he  made  encounters.  .  .  .  There 
was  Bunning.  The  Historical  Society  in  Saul's 
was  held  together  by  the  Senior  Tutor.  This 
gentleman,  a  Mr.  Gregg,  was  thin,  cadaverous, 
blue-chinned,  mildly  insincere.  It  was  his  view 
of  University  life  that  undergraduates  were 
born  yesterday  and  would  believe  anything 
that  you  told  them.  In  spite,  however,  of 
their  tender  years  there  was  a  lurking  ferocity 
that  must  be  checked  by  an  indulgent  heartiness 
of  manner,  as  one  might  offer  a  nut  to  a  monkey. 
His  invariable  manner  of  salutation — "  Come 
along,  Simter — the  very  man  I  wanted  to 
see  " — lost  its  attraction  through  much  repeti- 
tion, and  the  hearty  assumption  on  the  amiable 
gentleman's  part  that "  we  are  all  boys  together  " 
froze  many  undergraduates  into  a  chill  and 
indifferent  silence.  He  had  not  taken  Holy 
Orders,  but  he  gave,  nevertheless,  the  effect 


84  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

of  adopting  the  language  of  the  World,  the 
Flesh  and  the  Devil  in  order  that  he  might  the 
better  spy  out  the  land.  He  attracted,  finally, 
to  himself  certain  timid  souls  who  preferred 
insincere  comfort  to  none  at  all,  but  he 
was  hotly  rejected  by  more  able-bodied  per- 
sons. 

Nevertheless  the  Historical  Society  prospered, 
and  Olva  one  evening,  driven  he  knew  not  by 
what  impulse,  attended  its  meeting.  When  he 
entered  Mr.  Gregg's  room  some  dozen  men  were 
already  seated  there.  The  walls  were  hung  with 
groups  in  which  a  younger  and  even  thinner 
Mr.  Gregg  was  displayed,  a  curious  figure  in 
"  shorts."  On  one  side  of  the  room  two  oars 
were  hung  and  over  the  mantelpiece  (littered 
with  pipes)  there  were  photographs  of  the 
"  Mona  Lisa  "  and  Da  Vinci's  "  Last  Supper."  The 
men  in  the  room  were  embarrassed  and  silent. 
Under  a  strong  light  a  minute  undergraduate 
with  enormous  spectacles  sat,  white  and  trem- 
bling ;  it  was  obviously  he  who  was  to  read  the 
paper. 

Mr.  Gregg  came  forward  heartily.  "  Why, 
Dune,  this  is  quite  splendid !  The  very  man ! 
Why,  it  is  long  since  you've  honoured  our  humble 


STONE   ALTAE8  85 

gathering.  Baccy  t  That's  right.  Help  your- 
self. Erdington's  going  to  read  to  us  about  the 
Huns  and  stand  a  fire  of  questions  afterwards, 
aren't  you,  Erdington  ?  " 

The  youth  in  spectacles  gulped. 

"  That's  right.  That's  right.  Comfortable 
now,  Dune  ?  Got  all  you  want  ?  That's  right. 
Now  we  can  begin,  I  think.  Minutes  of  the 
last  meeting,  Stevens." 

Olva  placed  himself  in  a  corner  and  looked 
round  the  room.  He  found  that  most  of  the 
men  were  freshmen  whose  faces  he  did  not  know, 
but  there,  moving  his  fat  body  uneasily  on  a 
chair,  was  Bunning,  and  there,  to  his  intense 
surprise,  was  Lawrence.  That  football  hero  was 
lounging  with  half-closed  eyes  in  an  enormous 
armchair.  His  broad  back  looked  as  though  it 
would  burst  the  wooden  arms,  and  his  plain, 
good-natured  face  beamed,  through  a  cloud  of 
smoke,  upon  the  company.  Below  his  short, 
light  grey  flannel  trousers  were  bright  purple 
socks.  He  had  the  body  of  a  bullock — short, 
thick,  broad,  immensely  strong,  thoroughly 
well  calculated  to  withstand  the  rushes  of  on- 
coming three-quarters.  Various  freshmen  flung 
timid  glances  at  the  hero  every  now  and  again ; 


86  THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

it  was  to  them  an  event  that  they  might  have,  for 
a  whole  hour,  closely  under  their  observation, 
this  king  among  men. 

Olva  wondered  at  his  presence.  He  remem- 
bered that  Lawrence  was  taking  a  "  pass " 
degree  in  History.  He  knew  also  that  Lawrence 
somewhere  in  the  depths  of  his  slow  brain  had  a 
thirst  for  knowledge  and  at  the  same  time  a 
certain  assurance  that  he  would  never  acquire 
any.  His  slow  voice,  his  slow  smile,  the  great, 
heavy  back,  the  short  thick  legs  attracted  Olva  ; 
there  was  something  simple  and  primeval  here 
that  appealed  to  the  Dune  blood.  Moreover, 
since  the  afternoon  when  Olva  had  played  against 
the  Harlequins  and  covered  himself  with  glory, 
Lawrence  had  shown  a  disposition  to  make 
friends.  Old  Lawrence  might  be  stupid,  but,  as  a 
background,  he  was  the  most  important  man  in 
the  College.  His  slow,  lumbering  body  as  it 
rolled  along  the  Court  was  followed  by  the  eyes 
of  countless  freshmen.  His  appearance  on  the 
occasion  of  a  College  concert  was  the  signal 
for  an  orgy  of  applause.  Cardillac  might 
lead  the  College,  but  •  he  was,  nevertheless, 
of  common  clay.  Lawrence  was  of  the  gods  ! 

Swift  contrast  the  fat  and  shapeless  Bunning ! 


STONE  ALTAES  87 

As  the  tremulous  and  almost  tearful  voice  of 
little  Erdington  continued  the  solemn  and 
dreary  exposition  of  the  Huns,  Olva  felt  increas- 
ingly that  Bunning's  eye  was  upon  him.  Olva 
had  not  seen  the  creature  since  the  night  of  the 
revival,  and  he  was  irritated  with  himself  for  the 
persistence  of  his  interest.  The  man's  pluck 
had,  in  the  first  place,  struck  him,  but  now  it 
seemed  to  him  that  they  were,  in  some  undefin- 
ble  measure,  linked  together.  As  Olva  watched 
him,  half  contemptuously,  half  sarcastically,  he 
tried  to  pin  his  brain  down  to  the  actual,  definite 
connection.  It  seemed  ultimately  to  hang  round 
that  dreadful  evening  when  they  had  been 
together ;  it  was  almost — although  this  was 
absurd — as  though  Bunning  knew ;  but,  in 
spite  of  the  certain  assurance  of  his  ignorance 
Olva  felt  as  he  moved  uneasily  under  Bunning's 
gaze  that  the  man  himself  was  making  some  claim 
upon  him.  It  was  evident  that  Bunning  was 
unhappy  ;  he  looked  as  though  he  had  not  slept ; 
his  face  was  white  and  puffy,  his  eyes  dark  and 
heavy.  He  was  paying  no  attention  to  the 
"  Huns,"  but  was  trying,  obviously,  to  catch  Olva's 
eye.  As  the  reading  progressed  Olva  became 
more  and  more  uneasy.  It  showed  the  things 


88  THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

that  must  be  happening  to  his  nerves.  He  had 
now  that  sensation  that  had  often  come  to  him 
lately  that  some  one  was  waiting  for  him  outside 
the  door.  He  imagined  that  the  man  next  to 
him,  a  spotty,  thin  and  restless  freshman,  would 
suddenly  turn  to  him  and  say  quite  casually — 
"  By  the  way,  you  killed  Carfax,  didn't  you  ?  " 
Above  all  he  imagined  himself  suddenly  rising 
in  his  place  and  saying — "  Yes,  gentlemen,  this 
is  all  very  well,  very  interesting  I'm  sure,  but  I 
killed  Carfax." 

His  tortured  brain  was  being  driven,  compelled 
to  these  utterances.  Behind  him  still  he  felt 
that  pursuing  cloud ;  one  day  it  would  catch 
him  and,  out  of  the  heart  of  it,  there  would 
leap.  .  .  . 

And  all  this  because  Bunning  looked  at  him. 
It  was  becoming  now  a  habit — so  general  that 
it  was  instinctive — that,  almost  unconsciously, 
he  should,  at  a  point  like  this,  pull  at  his  nerves. 
"  They  are  watching  you ;  they  are  watching 
you.  Don't  let  them  see  you  like  this ;  pull 
yourself  together.  .  .  ." 

He  did.  Little  Erdington's  voice  ceased.  Mr. 
Gregg  was  heard  saying :  "  It  has  always  oc- 
curred to  me  that  the  Huns  .  .  ."  and  then,  after 


STONE  ALTAES  89 

many  speeches  :  "  How  does  this  point  of  view 
strike  you,  Erdington  ?  " 

It  didn't  strike  Erdington  very  strongly,  and 
there  was  no  other  person  present  who  seemed  to 
be  struck  in  any  very  especial  direction.  The 
discussion,  therefore,  quickly  flagged.  Olva 
escaped  Bunning's  pleading  eyes,  found  his  gown 
amongst  a  heap  in  the  corner,  and  avoiding  Mr. 
Gregg's  pressing  invitation  to  stay,  plunged  down 
the  stairs.  Behind  him,  then,  making  his 
heart  leap  into  his  mouth,  was  a  slow,  thick 
voice. 

"  I  say,  Dune,  what  do  you  say  to  a  little  drink 
in  my  room  after  all  that  muck  ?  "  Above  him, 
in  the  dark  shadow  of  the  stair,  loomed  Law- 
rence's thick  body. 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,"  Olva  said. 

Lawrence  came  lumbering  down.  He  always 
spoke  as  though  words  were  a  difficulty  to  him. 
He  left  out  any  word  that  was  not  of  vital  neces- 
sity. 

'*  Muck  that — awful  muck.  What  do  they 
want  gettin'  a  piffler  like  that  kid  in  the  glasses 
to  read  his  ideas  ?  Ain't  got  any — not  one — no 
more  'an  I  have." 

They  reached  the  Court — it  swam  softly  in 


90  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

the  moonlight — stars  burnt,  here  and  there,  in  a 
trembling  sky. 

Lawrence  put  his  great  arm  through  Olva's. 
"  Eippin'  game  that  o'  yours  yesterday.  Eippin'." 
He  seemed  to  lick  his  lips  over  it  as  a  gourmet 
over  a  delicate  dish. 

Lawrence  pursued  his  slow  thoughts. 

"  I  say,  you  know,  you're  one  of  these  clever 
ones — thinkin'  an'  writin'  an'  all  that — an' 
yet  you  play  footer  like  an  archangel — a  blarsted 
archangel.  Lucky  devil !  "  He  sighed  heavily. 
"  Every  time  I  put  on  my  footer  boots,"  he 
pursued,  "  I  say  to  myself  '  What  you'd  be 
givin',  Jerry  Lawrence,  if  you  could  just  go 
and  write  a  book !  What  you'd  give !  But 
it  ain't  likely — my  spellin's  somethin'  shock- 
in'." 

Here  there  was  interruption.  Several  men 
came  rattling,  laughing  and  shouting,  down  the 
staircase  behind  Lawrence  and  Olva. 

"  Oh,  damn  !  "  said  Lawrence,  slowly  turning 
round  upon  them.  Cardillac  was  there,  also 
Bobby  Galleon,  Eupert  Craven,  and  one  or  two 
more. 

Cardillac  shouted.  "  HulZo,  Lawrence,  old 
man.  Is  it  true,  as  they  say,  that  you've  been 


STONE  ALTAKS  91 

sitting  at  the  feet  of  our  dearly  beloved  Gregg  T 
How  splendid '  for  you  !  " 

"  I've  been  at  our  Historical  Society  hearin' 
about  the  Huns,  and  therefore  there's  compellin' 
necessity  for  a  drink,"  Lawrence  said,  moving 
in  the  direction  of  his  room. 

"  Oh !  rot,  don't  go  in  yet.  We're  thinking 
of  going  round  and  paying  Bunning  a  visit 
in  another  ten  minutes.  He's  going  to  have 
a  whole  lot  of  men  in  for  a  prayer-meeting. 
Thompson's  just  brought  word." 

Thompson,  a  wretched  creature  in  the  Second 
Year,  who  had,  during  his  first  term,  been  of  the 
pious  persuasion  and  had  since  turned  traitor, 
offered  an  eager  assurance. 

The  news  obviously  tempted  Lawrence.  He 
moved  his  body  slowly  round. 

"  Well,"  he  said  slowly,  then  he  turned  to 
Olva.  "  You'll  come  ?  "  he  said. 

"  No,  thanks,"  said  Olva  shortly.  "  Bunning's 
been  ragged  about  enough.  There's  nothing 
the  matter  with  the  man." 

Cardillac's  voice  was  amused.  "  Well,  Dune, 
I  daresay  we  can  get  on  without  you,"  he 
said. 

Lawrence  said  slowly,  "  Well,  I  don't  know. 


92     THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTTJEE 

P'raps  it's  mean  on  the  man.  I  want  a  drink.  I 
don't  think  I'm  havin'  any  to-night,  Cards." 

Cardillac  was  sharper.  "  Oh,  nonsense,  Law- 
rence, come  along.  It  doesn't  do  the  man  any 
harm." 

"  It  frightens  the  fellow  out  of  his  wits,"  said 
Dune  sharply.  "  You  wouldn't  like  it  yourself 
if  you  had  a  dozen  fellows  tumbling  down  upon 
your  rooms  and  chucking  your  things  out  of  the 
window." 

Eupert  Craven  said  :  "  Well,  I'm  off  anyhow. 
Work  for  me."  He  vanished  into  the  shadow. 

Lawrence  nodded.  "  Good-bye,  Cards,  old 
man.  Go  and  play  your  old  bridge  or  something 
— leave  the  wretched  Bunnin'  to  his  prayers." 

Lawrence  and  Olva  moved  away. 


The  first  thing  that  Lawrence  said  when  they 
were  lounging  comfortably  in  his  worn  but 
friendly  chairs  hit  Olva,  expecting  peace  here 
at  any  rate,  like  a  blow. 

"  Fellers  have  forgotten  Carfax  damn 
quick." 

In  that  good-natured  face  there  was  no  BUS- 


STONE   ALTAES  93 

picion,  but  Olva  seemed  to  see  there  a  curiosity, 
even  an  excitement. 

"  Yes,"  lie  said,  "  they  have." 

"  Fellers,"  said  Lawrence  again, "  aren't  clever 
in  this  College.  They  get  their  firsts  in  Science — 
little  measly  pups  from  Board  Schools  who  don't 
clean  their  teeth — and  there  are  one  or  two  men 
who  can  row  a  bit  and  play  footer  a  bit  and  play 
cricket  a  bit — I  grant  you  all  that — but  they 
aren't  clever — not  what  I  call  clever." 

Olva  waited  for  the  development  of  Lawrence's 
brain. 

"  Now  at  St.  Martin's  they'll  talk.  They'll  sit 
round  a  fire  the  whole  blessed  evenin'  talkin' — 
about  whether  there's  a  God  or  isn't  a  God/ 
about  whether  they're  there  or  aren't  there, 
about  whether  women  are  rotten  or  not,  about 
jolly  old  Greece  and  jolly  old  Eome — I  know. 
That's  the  sort  o'  stuff  you  could  go  in  for — 
damn  interestin'.  I'd  like  to  listen  to  a  bit  of 
it,  although  they'd  laugh  if  they  heard  me  say 
so,  but  what  I'm  gettin'  at  is  that  there  ain't 
any  clever  fellers  in  this  old  bundle  o'  bricks, 
and  Carfax's  death  proves  it." 

"  How  does  it  prove  it  t  "  asked  Dune. 

"  Why,  don't  you  see,  they'd  have  made  more 


94  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

of  Carfax.  Nobody  said  a  blessed  thing  that 
any  one  mightn't  have  said." 

Lawrence  thought  heavily  for  a  moment  or 
two,  and  then  he  brought  out — 

"  Carfax  was  a  stinker — a  rotten  fellow. 
That's  granted,  but  there  was  more  in  it  than 
just  Carfax.  Why,  any  one  could  give  him  a 
knock  on  the  chin  any  day  and  there's  no  loss, 
but  to  have  a  feller  killed  in  Sannet  Wood 
where  all  those  old  Druids " 

As  the  words  came  from  him  Lawrence  stopped. 

"  Druids  ?  "  said  Olva. 

"  Why,  yes.  I  wish  I  were  a  clever  feller  an' 
I  could  say  what  I  mean,  but  if  I'd  been  a  man 
with  a  bit  of  grey  matter  that's  what  I'd  have 
gone  in  for — those  old  stones,  those  old  fellers 
who  used  to  slash  your  throat  to  please  their  God. 
My  soul,  there's  stuff  there.  They  knew  what 
fightin'  was — ihey^d  have  played  footer  with  yer. 
Ever  since  I  was  a  tiny  kid  they've  excited  me. 
and  if  I'd  been  a  brainy  feller  I'd  have  known  a 
lot  more,  but  the  minute  I  start  readin'  about 
them  I  get  heavy,  can't  keep  my  eyes  to  it. 
But  I've  walked  miles — often  and  often — to  see 
a  stone  or  a  hill,  don't  yer  know,  and  Sannet 
Wood's  one  o'  the  best.  So,  says  I,  when  I 


STONE  ALTARS  95 

hear  about  young  Carfax  bein'  done  for  right  there 
at  the  very  place,  I  says  to  myself, '  You  may  look 
and  look — hold  your  old  inquests-^collar  your 
likely  feller — but  it  wasn't  a  man  that  did  it,  and 
you'll  have  to  go  further  than  human  beings  if 
you  fix  on  the  culprit.' " 

This  was,  in  all  probability,  the  longest  speech 
that  Lawrence  had  ever  made  in  his  life.  He 
himself  seemed  to  think  so,  for  he  added  in  short 
jerks  :  "  It  was  those  old  Druids — got  sick — o' 
the  sight — o'  Carfax's  dirty  body — hangin'  about 
in  their  preserves — an'  they  gave  him  a  chuck 
under  the  chin,"  and  after  that  there  was 
silence. 

To  Olva  the  effect  of  this  was  uncanny.  He 
played,  it  seemed,  a  spiritual  Blind  Man's  Buff. 
On  every  side  of  him  things  filled  the  air ;  now 
and  again  he  would  touch  them,  sometimes  he 
would  fancy  that  he  was  alone,  clear,  isolated, 
when  suddenly  something  again  would  blunder 
up  against  him.  And  always  with  him,  driving 
him  into  the  bustle  of  his  fellow  men,  flinging 
him,  hurling  him  from  one  noise  to  another  noise, 
was  the  terror  of  silence.  Let  him  once  be  alone, 
once  waiting  in  suspense,  and  he  would  hear.  .  .  . 
What  would  he  hear  ? 


96  THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

He  felt  a  sudden  impulse  to  speak. 

"  Do  you  know,  Lawrence,  in  a  kind  of  way  I 
feel  with  you.  I  mean  this — that  if — I  had,  at 
any  time,  committed  a  murder  or  were  indeed 
burdened  by  any  tremendous  breaking  of  a  law, 
I  believe  it  would  be  the  consciousness  of  the 
Maker  of  the  law  that  would  pursue  me.  It 
sounds  priggish,  but  I  don't  mean  man.  The 
laws  that  man  has  made  are  nothing — subject 
to  any  temporary  civilization,  mere  fences  put 
up  for  a  moment  to  keep  the  cattle  in  their  proper 
fields.  But  the  laws  that  God  made — if  you 
break  one.  .  .  ." 

Lawrence  turned  heavily  in  his  chair. 

"  Then  you  believe  in  God  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  believe  in  God." 

After  that  there  was  silence.  Both  men  felt 
uncomfortable.  Led  by  some  sudden,  ungovern- 
able impulse,  they  had  both  gone  further  than 
their  slight  acquaintance  justified.  Olva  was 
convinced  that  he  had  made  a  fool  of  himself, 
that  he  had  talked  like  a  prig.  Lawrence  was 
groping  hopelessly  amongst  a  forest  of  dark 
thought  for  some  little  sensible  thing  that 
he  might  say.  He  lound  nothing  and  so 


STONE  ALTAES  97 

relapsed,    with   false,   uncomfortable    easiness, 
into — 

"  I  say,  old  man,  have  a  drink." 
The  rest  of  their  conversation  concerned  foot- 
ball. 


CHAPTEE    VI 

THE   WATCHERS 

1 

T  T  E  was  running — running  for  his  life.  Behind 
-••  -*•  him  stretched  the  long  white  road  rising 
like  a  great  bloated,  warning  finger  out  of  the 
misty  trees.  Heavy  cushions  of  grey  cloud 
blotched  the  sky ;  through  the  mist  ridges  of 
ploughed  field  rose  like  bars. 

The  dog,  Bunker,  was  running  beside  him,  his 
tongue  out,  his  body  solid  grey  against  the  lighter, 
floating  grey  around.  His  feet  pattered  beside 
his  master,  but  his  body  appeared  to  edge  away 
and  yet  to  be  held  by  some  compelling  force. 

Olva  was  running,  running.  But  not  from 
Carfax.  There  in  the  wood  it  lay,  the  leg 
doubled  under  the  body,  the  head  hanging 
limply  back.  .  .  .  But  that  was  nought,  no  fear, 
no  terror  in  that.  It  could  not  pursue,  nor  in 
its  clumsy  following,  had  it  had  such  power, 
would  there  have  been  any  horror.  There  was 


98 


THE  WATCHEBS  99 

no  sound  in  the  world  save  his  running  and  the 
patter  of  the  dog's  feet.  Would  the  lights 
never  come,  those  sullen  streets  and  at  last  the 
grateful,  welcome  crowds  T 

He  could  see  one  lamp,  far  ahead  of  him,  fling- 
ing its  light  forward  to  help  him.  If  he  might 
only  reach  it  before  the  pursuer  caught  him. 
Then,  behind  him,  oh !  so  softly,  so  gently,  with 
a  dreadful  certainty,  It  came.  If  he  did  but 
once  look  round,  once  behold  that  Shadow,  his 
defeat  was  sure.  He  would  sink  down  there 
upon  the  road,  the  mists  would  crowd  upon  him, 
and  then  the  awful  end.  He  began  to  call  out, 
his  breath  came  in  staggering  gasps,  his  feet 
faltered. 

"  O,  mercy,  mercy — have  mercy."  He  sank 
trembling  to  his  knees. 

"  Dune,  Dune,  wake  up  !  What's  the  matter  T 
You've  been  making  the  most  awful  shindy. 
Dune,  Dune ! " 

Slowly  he  came  to  himself.  As  his  eyes  caught 
the  old  familiar  objects,  the  little  diamond- 
paned  window,  the  books,  the  smiling  tenderness 
of  "  Aegidius,"  the  last  evening  blaze  lighting 
the  room  with  golden  splendour,  he  pulled  himself 
together. 


100   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

He  had  been  sitting,  he  remembered  now,  in 
the  armchair  by  the  fire.  Craven  had  come  to 
tea.  They  had  had  their  meal,  had  talked 
pleasantly  enough,  and  then  Olva  had  felt  this 
overpowering  desire  for  sleep  come  down  upon 
him.  He  knew  the  sensation  of  it  well  enough 
by  now,  for  his  nights  had  often  been  crowded 
with  waking  hours,  and  this  drowsiness  would 
attack  him  at  any  time — in  hall,  in  chapel,  in 
lecture.  Sometimes  he  had  struggled  against 
it,  but  to-day  it  had  been  too  strong  for  him. 
Craven's  voice  had  grown  fainter  and  fainter,  the 
room  had  filled  with  mist.  He  had  made  one 
desperate  struggle,  had  seen  through  his  half- 
closed  eyes  that  Craven  was  looking  at  a  magazine 
and  blowing,  lazily,  clouds  of  smoke  from  his 
pipe  .  .  .  then  he  had  known  no  more. 

Now,  as  he  struggled  to  himself,  he  saw  that 
Craven  was  standing  over  him,  shaking  him  by 
the  arm. 

"  Hullo,"  he  said  stupidly,  "  I'm  afraid  I  must 
have  dropped  off.  I'm  afraid  you  must  have 
thought  me  most  frightfully  rude." 

Craven  left  him  and  went  back  to  his  chair. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  that's  all  right — only  you 
did  talk  in  the  most  extraordinary  way." 


THE   WATCHEES  101 

"  Did  I  ?  "  Olva  looked  at  him  gravely. 
"  Wliat  did  I  say  ?  " 

"  Oh — I  don't  know  —  only  you  shouted 
a  lot.  You're  over-done  a  bit,  aren't  you  ? 
Been  working  too  hard  I  expect."  Then  he 
added,  slowly,  "  You  were  crying  out  about 
Carfax." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  The  clock  ticked, 
the  light  slowly  faded,  leaving  the  room  in 
shadow.  Craven's  voice  was  uncomfortable. 
He  said  at  last — 

"  You  must  have  been  thinking  a  lot  about 
Carfax  lately." 

"  What  did  I  say  T  "  asked  Olva  again. 

"Oh,  nothing."  Craven  turned  his  eyes  away 
to  the  shadowy  panes.  "  You  were  dreaming 
about  a  road — and  something  about  a  wood  .  .  . 
and  a  matchbox." 

"  I've  been  sleeping  badly."  Olva  got  up, 
filled  his  pipe  and  relit  it.  "I  expect,  although 
we  don't  say  much  about  it,  the  Carfax  business 
has  got  on  all  our  nerves.  You  don't  look  your- 
self, Craven." 

He  didn't.  His  careless,  happy  look  had  left 
him.  Increasingly,  every  day,  Olva  seemed  to 
see  in  him  a  likeness  to  his  mother  and  sister. 


102   THE  PEELUDB  TO  ADVENTUBE 

The  eyes  now  were  darker,   the  lines  of  the 
mouth  were  harder. 

Meanwhile  so  strong  had  the  dream's  impres- 
sion been  that  Olva  could  not  yet  disentangle  it 
from  his  waking  thoughts.  He  was  in  his 
room  and  yet  the  white  road  stretched  out 
of  it — somewhere  there  by  the  bookcase — off 
through  the  mist  into  the  heart  of  the  dark 
wood. 

He  had  welcomed  during  these  last  days  Craven's 
advances  towards  friendship,  partly  because  he 
wanted  Mends  now  and  partly,  he  was  beginning 
now  to  recognize,  there  was,  in  the  back  of  his 
mind,  the  lingering  memory  of  the  kind  eyes  of 
Margaret  Craven.  He  perceived,  too,  that  here 
was  sign  enough  of  change  in  him — that  he  who 
had,  from  his  earliest  days,  held  himself  proudly, 
sternly  aloof  from  all  human  companionship  save 
that  of  his  father,  should  now,  so  readily  and 
eagerly,  greet  it.  Craven  had  been  proud  of  him, 
eager  to  be  with  him,  and  had  shewn,  in  his 
artless  opinions  of  men  and  things,  the  simplest, 
most  innocent  of  characters. 

"  Time  to  light  up,"  said  Olva.  The  room 
had  grown  very  dark. 

"  I  must  be  going." 


THE   WATCHEES  103 

Olva  noticed  at  once  that  there  was  a  new 
note  in  Craven's  voice.  The  boy  moved,  rest- 
lessly, about  the  room. 

"  I  say,"  he  brought  out  at  last,  laughing 
nervously,  "  don't  go  asleep  when  I'm  in  the 
room  again.  It  gives  one  fits." 

Both  men  were  conscious  of  some  subtle,  vague 
impression  moving  in  the  darkness  between 
them. 

Olva  answered  gravely,  "  I've  been  sticking 
in  at  an  old  paper  I've  been  working  on — no 
use  to  anybody,  and  I've  been  neglecting  my 
proper  work  for  it,  but  it's  absorbed  me. 
That's  what's  given  me  such  bad  nights,  I 
expect." 

"  I  shouldn't  have  thought,"  Craven  answered 
slowly,  "  that  anything  ever  upset  you ;  I 
shouldn't  have  thought  you  had  any  nerves. 
And,  in  any  case,  I  didn't  know  you  had  thought 
twice  about  the  Carfax  business." 

Olva  turned  on  the  electric  light.  At  the 
same  moment  there  was  a  loud  knock  on  the  door. 

Craven  opened  it,  showing  in  the  doorway  a 
pale  and  flustered  Bunning.  Craven  looked 
at  him  with  a  surprised  stare,  and  then,  calling 
out  good-bye  to  Olva,  walked  off. 


104   THE  PKELUDE  TO  ADVEOTUBE 

Bunning  stood  hesitating,  his  great  spectacles 
shining  owl-like  in  the  light. 

Dune  didn't  want  him.  He  was,  he  reflected 
as  he  looked  at  him,  the  very  last  person  whom 
he  did  want.  And  then  Bunning  had  most 
irritating  habits.  There  was  that  trick  of  his  of 
pushing  up  his  spectacles  nervously  higher  on 
to  his  nose.  He  had  a  silly  shrill  laugh,  and  he 
had  that  lack  of  tact  that  made  him,  when  you 
had  given  him  a  shilling's  worth  of  conversation 
and  confidence,  suppose  that  you  had  given  him 
half-a-crown's  worth  and  expect  that  you  would 
very  shortly  give  him  five  shillings'  worth.  He 
presumed  on  nothing  at  all,  was  confidential 
when  he  ought  to  have  been  silent  and  gushing 
when  he  should  simply  have  thanked  you  with  a 
smile.  Nothing,  moreover,  to  look  at.  He  had 
the  kind  of  complexion  that  looks  as  though  it 
would  break  into  spots  at  the  earliest  oppor- 
tunity. His  clothes  fitted  him  badly  and  were 
dusty  at  the  knees  ;  his  hair  was  of  no  colour  nor 
strength  whatever,  and  he  bit  his  nails.  His 
eyes  behind  his  spectacles  were  watery  and 
restless  and  his  linen  always  looked  as  though 
it  had  been  quite  clean  yesterday  and  would  be 
quite  filthy  to-morrow. 


THE  WATCHERS  106 

And  yet  Olva,  as  lie  looked  at  him  seated  awk- 
wardly in  a  chair,  was  surprisingly,  unexpectedly 
tonched.  The  creature  was  so  obviously  sin- 
cere. It  was  indeed  poor  Bunning's  only 
possible  "  leg,"  his  ardour.  He  would  willingly 
go  to  the  stake  for  anything.  It  was  the  actual 
death  and  sacrifice  that  mattered — and  Bunning's 
life  was  spent  in  marching,  magnificently  and 
wholeheartedly,  to  the  sacrificial  altars  and  then 
discovering  that  he  had  simply  been  asked  to 
tea. 

Now  it  was  evident  that  he  wanted  something 
from  Olva.  His  tremulous  eyes  had,  as  they 
gazed  at  Dune  across  the  room,  the  dumb  wor- 
ship of  a  dog  adoring  its  master. 

"  I  hear,"  he  said  in  that  husky  voice  that 
always  sounded  as  though  he  were  just  swallow- 
ing the  last  crumbs  of  a  piece  of  toast,  "  that  you 
stopped  Cardillac  and  the  others  coming  round 
to  my  rooms  the  other  night.  I  can't  tell  you 
how  I  feel  about  it." 

"  Rot,"  said  Olva  brusquely.  "  If  you  were 
less  of  an  ass  they  wouldn't  want  to  come  round 
to  your  rooms  so  often." 

"  I  know,"  said  Bunning.  "  I  am  an  awful 
ass."  He  pushed  his  spectacles  up  his  nose. 


106   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVEETUBE 

"  Why  did  you  stop  them  coming  T "  he 
asked. 

"  Simply,"  said  Olva,  "  because  it  seems  to  me 
that  ten  men  on  to  one  is  a  rotten  poor  game." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Bunning,  still  very 
husky,  "  if  a  man's  a  fool  he  gets  rotted.  That's 
natural  enough.  I've  always  been  rotted  all  my 
life.  I  used  to  think  it  was  because  people 
didn't  understand  me — now  I  know  that  it 
really  is  because  I  am  an  ass." 

Strangely,  suddenly,  some  of  the  burden  that 
had  been  upon  Olva  now  for  so  long  was  lifted. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  room  that  had  lain  upon 
him  so  heavily  was  lighter — and  he  seemed  to 
feel  the  gentle  withdrawing  of  that  pursuit  that 
now,  ever,  night  and  day,  sounded  in  his 
ears. 

And  what,  above  all,  had  happened  to  him  t 
He  flung  his  mind  back  to  a  month  ago.  With 
what  scorn  then  would  he  have  glanced  at  Bun- 
ning's  ugly  body — with  what  impatience  have 
listened  to  his  pitiful  confessions.  Now  he  said 
gently — 

"  Tell  me  about  yourself." 

Bunning  gulped  and  gripped  the  baggy  knees 
of  his  trousers. 


THE  WATCHEES  107 

"  I'm  very  unhappy,"  lie  said  at  last  desper- 
ately— "  very.  And  if  you  hadn't  come  with 
me  the  other  night  to  hear  Med-Tetloe — I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  why  you  did — I  shouldn't 
have  come  now " 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter  f  " 

Bunning's  mouth  was  full  of  toast.  "  It  was 
that  night — that  service.  I  was  very  worked  up 
and  I  went  round  afterwards  to  speak  to  him. 
I  could  see,  you  know,  that  it  hadn't  touched 
you  at  all.  I  could  see  that,  and  then  when  I 
went  round  to  see  him  he  hadn't  got  anything 
to  say — nothing  that  I  wanted — and — suddenly 
— then — at  that  moment — I  felt  it  was  all  no 
good.  It  was  you,  you  made  me  feel  like  that " 

"It" 

"  Yes.  If  you  hadn't  gone — like  that — it 
would  have  been  different.  But  when  you — the 
last  man  in  College  to  care  about  it — went  and 
gave  it  its  chance  I  thought  that  would  prove  it. 
And  then  when  I  went  to  him  he  was  so  silly, 
Med-Tetloe  I  mean.  Oh !  I  can't  describe  it, 
but  it  was  just  no  use  and  I  began  to  feel  that  it 
was  all  no  good.  I  don't  believe  there  is  a  God 
at  all — it's  all  been  wrong — I  don't  know  what 
to  do.  I  don't  know  where  to  go.  I've  been 


108  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUKE 

wretched  for  days,  not  sleeping  or  anything. 
And  then  they  come  and  rag  me — and — and — 
the  Union  men  want  me  to  take  Cards  round  for 
a  Prayer  Meeting — and — and — I  wouldn't,  and 
they  said.  ...  Oh  !  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know 
what  to  do — I  haven't  got  anything  left !  " 

And  here,  to  Olva's  intense  dismay,  the 
wretched  creature  burst  into  the  most  passionate 
and  desperate  tears,  putting  his  great  hands  over 
his  face,  his  whole  body  sobbing.  It  was  desola- 
tion— the  desolation  of  a  human  being  who  had 
clutched  desperately  at  hope  after  hope,  who  had 
demanded  urgently  that  he  should  be  given  some- 
thing to  live  for  and  had  had  all  things  snatched 
from  his  hands. 

Olva,  knowing  what  his  own  loneliness  was, 
and  the  terror  of  it,  understood.  A  fortnight 
ago  he  would  have  hated  the  scene,  have  sent 
Bunning,  with  a  cutting  word,  flying  from  the 
room,  never  to  return. 

"  I  say,  Bunning,  you  mustn't  carry  on  like 
this — you're  overdone  or  something.  Besides 
I  don't  understand.  What  does  it  matter  if 
you  have  grown  to  distrust  Med-Tetloe  and  all 
that  crowd.  They  aren't  the  only  people  in  the 
world — that  isn't  the  only  sort  of  religion." 


THE  WATCHEES  109 

"  It's  all  I  had.  I  haven't  got  anything  now. 
They  don't  want  me  at  home.  They  don't 
want  me  here.  I'm  not  clever.  I  can't  do 
anything.  .  .  .  And  now  God's  gone.  ...  I 
think  I'll  drown  myself." 

"  Nonsense.  You  mustn't  talk  like  that — 
God's  never  gone." 

Bunning  dropped  his  hands,  looked  up,  his 
face  ridiculous  with  its  tear-stains. 

"  You  think  there's  a  God  !  " 

"  I  know  there's  a  God." 

"  Oh  !  "  Bunning  sighed. 

"  But  you  mustn't  take  it  from  me,  you  know. 
You  must  think  it  out  for  yourself.  Everybody 
has  to." 

"  Yes — but  you  matter — more  to  me  than — 
any  one." 

"IT" 

"  Yes."  Bunning  looked  at  the  floor  and 
began  to  speak  very  fast.  "  You've  always 
seemed  to  me  wonderful — so  different  from 
every  one  else.  You  always  looked — so  wonder- 
ful. I've  always  been  like  that,  wanted  my 
hero,  and  I  haven't  generally  been  able  to  speak 
to  them — my  heroes  I  mean.  I  never  thought, 
of  course,  that  I  should  speak  to  you.  And 


110  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

then  they  sent  me  that  day  to  you  and  you  came 
with  me — it  was  so  wonderful — I've  thought  of 
nothing  else  since.  I  don't  think  God  would 
matter  if  you'd  only  let  me  come  to  see  you 
sometimes  and  talk  to  you — like  this." 

"  Don't  talk  that  sort  of  rot.  Always  glad  to 
see  you.  Of  course  you  may  come  in  and  talk 
if  you  wish." 

"  Oh !  you're  so  different — from  what  I  thought. 
You  always  looked  as  though  you  despised  every- 
body— and  now  you  look — Oh !  I  don't  know 
— but  I'm  afraid  of  you " 

The  wretched  Bunning  was  swiftly  regaining 
confidence.  He  was  now,  of  course,  about  to 
plunge  a  great  deal  farther  than  was  necessary 
and  to  burden  Olva  with  self -revelations  and  the 
rest. 

Olva  hurriedly  broke  in — 

"  Well,  come  and  see  me  when  you  want  to. 
I've  got  a  lot  of  work  to  do  before  Hall.  But 
we'll  go  for  a  walk  one  day.  ..." 

Bunning  was  at  once  flung  back  on  to  his  timid 
self.  He  pushed  his  spectacles  back,  blushed, 
nearly  tumbled  over  his  chair  as  he  got  up,  and 
backed  confusedly  out  of  the  room. 

He  tried  to  say  something  at  the  door — "  I 


THE   WATCHEES  111 

can't  thank  you  enongh  .  .  ."  he  stuttered  and 
was  gone. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him,  swiftly  Olva 
was  conscious  again  of  the  Pursuit.  .  .  . 

He  turned  to  the  empty  room — "  Leave  me 
alone,"  he  whispered.  "  For  pity's  sake  leave 
me  alone." 

The  silence  that  followed  was  filled  with  in- 
sistent, mysterious  urgency. 

2 

Craven  did  not  come  that  night  to  Hall. 
Galleon  had  asked  him  and  Olva  to  breakfast 
the  next  morning.  He  did  not  appear. 

About  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  a  note  was 
sent  round  to  Olva's  rooms.  "  I've  been  rather 
seedy.  Just  out  for  a  long  walk — do  you  mind 
my  taking  Bunker  ?  Send  word  round  to  my 
rooms  if  you  mind. — E.  0."  Craven  had  taken 
Bunker  out  for  walks  before  and  had  grown 
fond  of  the  dog.  There  was  nothing  in  that. 
But  Olva,  as  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  his  room 
with  the  note  in  his  hand,  was  frightened. 

The  result  of  it  was  that  about  five  o'clock  OD 
that  afternoon  Olva  paid  his  second  visit  to 
the  dark  house  in  Eocket  Eoad.  His  motives 


112   THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVENTTJBE 

for  going  were  confused,  but  he  knew  that,  at 
the  back  of  them,  was  a  desire  that  he  should 
find  Margaret  Craven,  with  her  grave  eyes, 
waiting  for  him  in  the  musty  little  drawing- 
room,  and  that  Mrs.  Craven,  that  mysterious 
woman,  should  not  be  there.  The  hall,  when 
the  old  servant  had  admitted  him,  once  again 
seemed  to  enfold  him  in  its  darkness  and  heavy 
air  with  an  almost  active  purpose.  It  breathed 
with  an  actual  sound,  almost  with  a  melody  .  .  . 
the  "  Valse  Triste  "  of  Sibelius,  a  favourite  with 
Olva,  seemed  to  him  now  to  be  humming  its 
thin  spiral  note  amongst  the  skins  and  Chinese 
weapons  that  covered  the  walls.  The  House 
seemed  to  come  forward,  on  this  second  occasion, 
actively,  personally.  .  .  .  His  wish  was  gratified. 
Margaret  Craven  was  alone  in  the  dark,  low- 
ceilinged  drawing-room  standing,  in  her  black 
dress,  before  the  great  deep  fireplace,  as  though 
she  had  known  that  he  would  come  and  had  been 
awaiting  his  arrival. 

"  I  know  that  you  will  excuse  my  mother," 
she  said  in  her  grave,  quiet  voice.  "  She  is  not 
very  well.  She  will  be  sorry  not  to  have  seen 
you."  Her  hand  was  cool  and  strong,  and,  as 
he  held  it  for  an  instant,  he  was  strangely  con- 


THE   WATCHEES  113 

scious  that  she,  as  well  as  the  House,  had  moved 
into  more  intimate  relation  with  him  since 
their  last  meeting. 

They  sat  down  and  talked  very  quietly,  their 
voices  sounding  like  low  notes  of  music  in  the 
heavy  room.  He  was  conscious  of  immense  rest 
in  the  repose  of  her  figure,  the  pale  outline  of 
her  face,  the  even  voice,  and  above  all  the  grave 
tenderness  of  her  eyes.  He  was  aware,  too, 
that  she  was  demanding  from  him  something 
of  the  same  kind ;  he  divined  that  for  her,  too, 
life  had  been  no  easy  thing  since  they  last  met 
and  that  she  wanted  now  a  little  relief  before  she 
must  return.  He  tried  to  give  it  her. 

All  through  their  conversation  he  was  still 
conscious  in  the  dim  rustle  that  any  breeze  made 
in  the  room  of  that  thin  melody  that  Sibelius 
once  heard.  .  .  . 

"I  hope  that  Mrs.  Craven  is  not  seriously 
ill!" 

"  No.  It  is  one  of  her  headaches.  Her 
nerves  are  very  easily  upset.  There  was  a 
thunder-storm  last  night.  .  .  .  She  has  never 
been  strong  since  father  died." 

"  You  will  tell  her  how  sorry  I  am." 

"  Thank,  you.  She  is  wonderfully  brave  about 

i 


114   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

it.  She  never  complains — she  suffers  more  than 
we  know,  I  think.  I  don't  think  this  house  is 
good  for  her.  Father  died  here  and  her  bed- 
room now  is  the  room  where  he  died.  That 
is  not  good  for  her,  I'm  sure.  Eupert  and  I 
both  are  agreed  about  it,  but  we  cannot  get  her 
to  change  her  mind.  She  can  be  very  deter- 
mined." 

Yes — Olva,  remembering  her  as  she  sat  so 
sternly  before  the  fire,  knew  that  she  could  be 
determined. 

"  And  I  am  afraid  that  your  brother  isn't 
very  well  either." 

She  looked  at  him  with  troubled  eyes.  "  I 
am  distressed  about  Eupert.  He  has  taken  this 
death  of  his  friend  so  terribly  to  heart.  I 
have  never  known  him  morbid  about  anything 
before.  It  is  really  strange  because  I  don't 
think  he  was  very  greatly  attached  to  Mr.  Carfax. 
There  were  things  I  know  that  he  didn't 
like." 

"  Yes.  He  doesn't  look  the  kind  of  fellow 
who  would  let  his  mind  dwell  on  things.  He 
looks  too  healthy." 

"  No.  He  came  in  to  see  us  for  an  hour  last 
night  and  sat  there  without  a  word.  I  played 


THE   WATCHEBS  115 

to  him — he  seemed  not  to  hear  it.  And  gener- 
ally he  cares  for  music." 

"  I'm  afraid  " — their  eyes  met  and  Olva  held 
hers  until  he  had  finished  his  sentence — "  I'm 
afraid  that  it  must  seem  a  little  lonely  and 
gloomy  for  you  here — in  this  house — after  your 
years  abroad." 

She  looked  away  from  him  into  the 
fire. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  speaking  with  sudden  inten- 
sity. "  I  hate  it.  I  have  hated  it  always — this 
house,  Cambridge,  the  life  we  lead  here.  I  love 
my  mother,  but  since  I  have  been  abroad  some- 
thing has  happened  to  change  her.  There  is  no 
confidence  between  us  now.  And  it  is  lonely 
because  she  speaks  so  little — I  am  afraid  she 
is  really  very  ill,  but  she  refuses  to  see  a 
doctor  .  ..." 

Then  her  voice  was  softer  again,  and  she  leant 
forward  a  little  towards  him.  "  And  I  have 
told  you  this,  Mr.  Dune,  because  if  you  will  you 
can  help  me — all  of  us.  Do  you  know  that  she 
Liked  you  immensely  the  other  evening  ?  I 
have  never  known  her  take  to  any  one  at  once, 
so  strongly.  She  told  me  afterwards  that  you 
had  done  her  more  good  than  fifty  doctors — 


116   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

just  your  being  there — so  that  if,  sometimes, 
you  could  come  and  see  her " 

He  did  not  know  what  it  was  that  suddenly, 
at  her  words,  brought  the  terror  back  to  him.  He 
saw  Mrs.  Craven  so  upright,  so  motionless,  look- 
ing at  him  across  the  room — with  recognition, 
with  some  implied  claim.  Why,  he  had  spoken 
scarcely  ten  words  to  her.  How  could  he  possi- 
bly have  been  of  any  use  to  her  ?  And  then, 
afraid  lest  his  momentary  pause  had  been  notice- 
able, he  said  eagerly — 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  Mrs.  Craven  to  say  that. 
Of  course  I  will  come  if  she  really  cares  about  it. 
I  am  not  a  man  of  many  friends  or  many  occupa- 
tions. .  .  ." 

She  broke  in  upon  him — 

"  You  could  be  if  you  cared.  I  know,  because 
Bupert  has  told  me.  They  all  think  you  won- 
derful, but  you  don't  care.  Don't  throw  away 
friends,  Mr.  Dune— one  can  be  so  lonely  without 
them." 

Her  voice  shook  a  little  and  he  was  suddenly 
afraid  that  she  was  going  to  cry.  He  bent 
towards  her. 

"  I  think,  perhaps,  we  are  alike  in  that,  Miss 
Craven.  We  do  not  make  our  friends  easily,  but  I 


THE  WATCHEES  117 

they  mean  a  great  deal  to  us  when  they  come. 
Yes,  I  am  lonely  and  I  am  a  little  tired  of  bear- 
ing my  worries  alone,  in  silence.  Perhaps  I 
can  help  yon  to  stand  this  life  a  little  better 
if  I  tell  you  that  —  mine  is  every  bit  as 
hard." 

She  turned  to  him  eyes  that  were  filled  with 
gratitude.  Her  whole  body  seemed  to  be  touched 
with  some  new  glow.  Into  the  heart  of  their 
consciousness  of  the  situation  that  had 
arisen  between  them  there  came,  sharply,  the 
sound  of  a  shutting  door.  Then  steps  in  the 
hall. 

"  That's  Eupert,"  she  said. 

They  both  rose  as  he  came  into  the  room. 
He  stood  back  in  the  shadow  for  a  moment  as 
though  surprised  at  Olya's  presence.  Then 
he  came  forward  very  gravely. 

"  I've  found  something  of  yours,  Dune," 
he  said.  It  lay,  gleaming,  in  his  hand.  "  Your 
matchbox." 

Dune  drew  a  sharp  breath.  Then  he  took  it 
and  looked  at  it. 

"  Where  did  you  find  it  T  " 

"  In  Sannet  Wood.  Bunker  and  I  have  been 
for  a  walk  there.  Bunker  found  it." 


118   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

As  the  three  of  them  stood  there,  motionless, 
in  the  middle  of  the  dark  room,  Olva  caught, 
through  the  open  door,  the  last  sad  fading  breath 
of  the  "  Valse  Triste." 


CHAPTEB 

TERROR 


THAT  night  the  cold  fell,  like  a  plague, 
upon  the  town.  It  came,  sweeping  across 
the  long  low  flats,  crisping  the  dark  canals 
with  white  frosted  ice,  stiffening  the  thin  reeds 
at  the  river's  edge,  taking  each  blade  of  grass  and 
holding  it  in  its  iron  hand  and  then  leaving  it 
an  independent  thing  of  cold  and  shining  beauty. 
At  last  it  blew  in  wild  gales  down  the  narrow 
streets,  throwing  the  colour  of  those  grey  walls 
against  a  sky  of  the  sharpest  blue,  making  of 
each  glittering  star  a  frozen  eye,  carrying  in 
its  arms  a  round  red  sun  that  it  might  fasten  it, 
like  a  frosted  orange,  against  its  hard  blue 
canopy. 

Already  now,  at  half -past  two  of  the  afternoon, 
there  were  signs  of  the  early  dusk.  The  blue 
was  slowly  being  drained  from  the  sky,  and 
against  the  low  horizon  a  faint  golden  shadow 


120   THE  PBELTJDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

soon  to  burn  into  the  heart  of  the  cold  blue,  was 
hovering. 

Olva  Dune,  turning  into  the  King's  Parade, 
was  conscious  of  crowds  of  people,  of  a  gaiety 
and  life  that  filled  the  air  with  sound.  He 
checked  sternly  with  a  furious  exercise  of  self- 
control  his  impulse  to  creep  back  into  the 
narrow  streets  that  he  had  just  left. 

"  It's  an  Idea,"  he  repeated  over  and  over, 
as  he  stood  there.  "  It's  an  Idea.  .  .  .  You 
are  like  any  one  else — you  are  as  you  were  .  .  . 
before  .  .  .  everything.  There  is  no  mark — 
no  one  knows." 

For  it  seemed  to  him  that  above  him,  around 
him,  always  before  him  and  behind  him  there  was 
a  grey  shadow,  and  that  as  men  approached  him 
this  shadow,  bending,  whispered,  and,  as  they 
came  to  him,  they  flung  at  him  a  frightened 
glance  .  .  .  and  passed. 

If  only  he  might  take  the  arm  of  any  one  of 
those  bright  and  careless  young  men  and  say  to 
him,  "  I  killed  Carfax — thus  and  thus  it  was." 
Oh !    the  relief !    the   lifting   of  the    weight ! 
For  then — and  only  then — this  pursuing  Sha-    , 
dow,  so    strangely  grave,  not  cruel,  but  only    \ 
relentless,  would  step  back.    Because  that  con- 


TEEEOB  121 

fession — how  clearly  lie  knew  it ! — was  the  thing 
that  God  demanded.  So  long  as  he  kept  silence 
he  resisted  the  Pursuer — so  long  as  he  resisted 
the  Pursuer  he  must  fly,  he  must  escape — first 
into  Silence,  then  into  Sound,  then  back  again 
to  Silence.  Somewhere,  behind  his  actual  con- 
sciousness, there  was  the  knowledge  that,  did 
he  once  yield  himself,  life  would  be  well,  but 
that  yielding  meant  Confession,  Eenunciation, 
Devotion.  It  was  not  because  it  was  Carfax 
that  he  had  killed,  but  it  was  because  it  was  God 
that  had  spoken  to  him,  that  he  fled. 

A  fortnight  ago  he  would  have  been  already 
defeated — the  Pursuer  should  have  caught  him, 
bound  him,  done  with  him  as  he  would.  But 
now — in  that  same  instant  that  young  Craven 
had  looked  at  him  with  challenge  in  his  eyes,  in 
that  instant  also  he,  Olva,  had  looked  at  Mar- 
garet. 

In  that  silence,  yesterday  evening,  in  the  dark 
drawing-room  the  two  facts  had  together  leapt 
at  him — he  loved  Margaret  Craven,  he  was  sus- 
pected by  Eupert  Craven.  Love  had  thus,  ter- 
ribly, grimly,  and  yet  so  wonderfully,  sprung  into 
his  heart  that  had  never,  until  now,  known  its 
lightest  touch.  Because  of  it — because  Mar- 


122  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

garet  Craven  must  never  know  what  lie  had  done 
— he  must  fight  Craven,  must  lie  and  twist  and 
turn.  .  .  .  His  soul  must  belong  to  Margaret 
Craven,  not  to  this  terrible,  unperturbed,  pur- 
suing God. 

All  night  he  had  fought  for  control.  A  very 
little  more  and  he  would  rush  crying  his  secret 
to  the  whole  world ;  slowly  he  had  summoned 
calm  back  to  him.  Eupert  Craven  should  be 
defeated  ;  he  would,  quietly,  visit  Sannet  Wood, 
face  it  in  its  naked  fact,  stand  before  it  and 
examine  it — and  fight  down  once  and  for  all 
this  imagination  of  God. 

Those  glances  that  men  flung  upon  him,  that 
sudden  raising  of  the  eyes  to  his  face  ...  a 
man  greeted  him,  another  man  waved  his  hand 
.  .  .  always  this  same  suspicion  .  .  .  the  great 
grey  shadow  that  bent  and  whispered  in  their 
ears. 

He  saw,  too,  another  picture.  High  above  him 
some  great  power  was  seated,  and  down  to  earth 
there  bent  a  mighty  Hand.  Into  this  Hand  very 
gently,  very  tenderly,  certain  figures  were 
drawn — Mrs.  Craven,  Margaret,  Eupert,  Bun- 
ning,  even  Lawrence.  Olva  was  dragging  with 
him,  into  the  heart  of  some  terrible  climax, 


TEEEOE  123 

these  so  diverse  persons;  he  could  not  escape 
now — other  lives  were  twisted  into  the  fabric 
of  his  own. 

And  yet  with  this  certainty  of  the  futility  of 
it,  he  must  still  struggle  ...  to  the  very  end. 

On  that  cold  day  the  world  seemed  to  stand,  as 
men  gather  about  a  coursing  match,  with  hard 
eyes  and  jeering  faces  to  watch  the  hopeless 
flight.  .  .  . 


He  fetched  Bunker  from  the  stable  where 
he  was  kept  and  set  off  along  the  hard  white 
road.  He  had  behaved  very  badly  to  Bunker, 
but  the  dog  showed  no  signs  of  delight  at  his 
release.  On  other  days  when  he  had  been  kept 
in  his  stable  for  a  considerable  time  he  had  gone 
mad  with  joy  and  jumped  at  his  master,  wagging 
his  whole  body  in  excitement.  Now  he  walked 
very  slowly  by  Olva's  side,  a  little  way  behind 
him  ;  when  Olva  spoke  to  him  he  wagged  his 
tail,  but  as  though  it  were  duty  that  impelled  it. 

The  air  grew  colder  and  colder — slowly  now 
there  had  stolen  on  to  the  heart  of  the  blue  sky 
white  pinnacles  of  cloud — a  dazzling  whiteness, 


124   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

but  catching,  mysteriously,  the  shadow  of 
the  gold  light  that  heralded  the  setting  sun. 
These  clouds  were  charged  with  snow ;  as  they 
hung  there  they  seemed  to  radiate  from  their 
depths  an  even  more  piercing  coldness.  They 
hung  above  Olva  like  a  vast  mountain  range 
and  had  in  their  outline  so  sharp  and  real  an 
existence  that  they  were  part  of  the  hard  black 
horizon,  rising,  immediately,  out  of  the  long, 
low,  shivering  flats. 

There  was  no  sound  in  all  the  world ;  behind 
him,  sharply,  the  Cambridge  towers  bit  the 
sky — before  him  like  a  clenched  hand  was  the 
little  wood. 

The  silence  seemed  to  have  a  rhythm  and 
voice  of  its  own  so  that  if  one  listened,  quite 
clearly  the  tramp  of  a  marching  army  came 
over  the  level  ground.  Always  an  army  march- 
ing— and  when  suddenly  a  bird  rose  from  the 
canal  with  a  sharp  cry  the  tramping  was  caught, 
with  the  bird,  for  an  instant,  into  the  air,  and 
then  when  the  cry  was  ended  sank  down  again. 
The  wood  enlarged ;  it  lay  upon  the  cold  land 
now  like  a  man's  head ;  a  man  with  a  cap. 
Spaces  between  the  trees  were  eyes  and  it 
seemed  that  he  was  lying  behind  the  rim  of  the 


TEKKOR  125 

world  and  leaning  his  head  upon  the  edge  of  it 
and  gazing.  .  .  . 

Bunker  suddenly  stopped  and  looked  up  at 
his  master. 

"  Come  on,"  Olva  turned  on  to  him  sharply. 

The  dog  looked  at  him,  pleading.  Then  in 
Olva's  dark  stern  face  he  seemed  to  see  that 
there  was  no  relenting — that  wood  must  be 
faced.  He  moved  forward  again,  but  slowly, 
reluctantly.  All  this  nonsense  that  Lawrence 
had  talked  about  Druids.  We  will  soon  see 
what  to  make  of  that.  And  yet,  in  the  wood,  it 
did  seem  as  though  there  were  something  waiting. 
It  was  now  no  longer  a  man's  head — only  a 
dark,  melancholy  band  of  trees,  dead  black 
now  against  the  high  white  clouds. 

There  had  risen  in  Olva  the  fighting  spirit. 
Fear  was  still  there,  ghastly  fear,  but  also  an 
anger,  a  rage.  Why  should  he  be  thus  tor- 
mented !  What  had  he  done  ?  Who  was  Car- 
fax that  the  slaying  of  him  should  be  so  unfor- 
gettable a  sin  ?  Moreover,  had  it  been  the  mere 
vulgar  hauntings  of  remorse,  terrors  of  a  fright- 
ened conscience,  he  could  have  turned  upon  him- 
self the  contempt  that  any  Dune  must  deserve 
for  so  ignoble  a  submission. 


126  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

But  here  there  were  other  things — something 
that  no  human  resolution  could  combat.  He 
seized  then  eagerly  on  the  things  that  he  could 
conquer — the  suspicions  of  Eupert  Craven,  the 
rivalry  of  Cardillac,  the  confidences  of  Bunning, 
.  .  .  the  grave  tenderness  of  Margaret  Craven 
.  .  .  these  things  he  would  clutch  and  hold,  let 
the  Pursuing  Spirits  do  what  they  would. 

As  he  entered  the  dark  wood  a  few  flakes  of 
snow  were  falling.  He  knew  where  the  Druid 
Stones  lay.  He  had  once  been  shown  them  by 
some  undergraduate  interested  in  such  things. 
They  lay  a  little  to  the  right,  below  the  little 
crooked  path  and  above  the  Hollow. 

The  wood  was  not  dripping  now — held  in  the 
iron  hand  of  the  frost  the  very  leaves  on  the 
ground  seemed  to  be  made  of  metal ;  the  bare 
twisted  branches  of  the  trees  shone  with  frost — 
the  earth  crackled  beneath  his  foot  and  in 
the  wood's  silence,  when  he  broke  a  twig  with 
his  boot  the  sound  shot  into  the  air  and  rang 
against  the  listening  stillness. 

He  looked  at  the  Hollow,  Bunker  close  at  his 
heels.  He  could  see  the  spot  where  he  had  first 
stood,  talking  to  Carfax — there  where  the  ferns 
now  glistened  with  silver.  There  was  the  place 


TEEEOB  127 

where  Carfax  had  fallen.  Bunker  was  smelling 
with  his  head  down  at  the  ground.  What  did 
the  dog  remember  ?  What  had  Craven  meant 
when  he  said  that  Bunker  had  found  the  match- 
box ?  » 

He  stood  silently  looking  down  at  the  Hollow. 
In  his  heart  now  there  was  no  terror.  When, 
during  these  last  days,  he  had  been  fighting 
his  fear  it  had  always  seemed  to  him  that  the 
heart  of  it  lay  in  this  Hollow.  He  had  always 
seen  the  dripping  fern,  smelt  the  wet  earth,  heard 
the  sound  of  the  mist  falling  from  the  trees. 
Now  the  earth  was  clear  and  hard  and  cold. 
The  great  white  mountains  drove  higher  into 
the  sky,  very  softly  and  gently  a  few  white  flakes 
were  falling. 

With  a  great  relief,  almost  a  sigh  of  thank- 
fulness, he  turned  back  to  the  Druids'  Stones. 
There  they  were — two  of  them  standing  up- 
right, stained  with  lichen,  grey  and  weather- 
beaten,  one  lying  flat,  hollowed  a  little  in  the 
centre.  The  ferns  stood  above  them  and  the 
bare  branches  of  the  trees  crossed  in  strange 
shapes  against  the  sky. 

Here,  too,  there  was  a  peaceful,  restful  silence. 
No  more  was  God  in  these  quiet  stones  than  He 


128   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUKE 

had  been  in  that  noisy  theatrical  Eevival  Meet- 
ing— Lawrence  was  wrong.  Those  old  religions 
were  dead.  No  more  could  the  Greek  Gods 
pass  smiling  into  the  temples  of  their  wor- 
shippers, no  more  Wodin,  Thor  and  the  rest  may 
demand  their  bloody  sacrifice. 

These  old  stones  are  dead.  The  Gods  are 
dead — but  God  ?  .  .  . 

He  stayed  there  for  a  while  and  the  snow  fell 
more  heavily.  The  golden  light  had  faded,  the 
high  white  clouds  had  swallowed  the  blue. 
There  would  soon  be  storm. 

In  the  wood — strangest  of  ironies — there  had 
been  peace. 

Now  he  started  down  the  road  again  and  was 
conscious,  as  the  wood  slipped  back  into  dis- 
tance, of  some  vague  alarm. 

8 

The  world  was  now  rapidly  transformed. 
There  had  been  promised  a  blaze  of  glory,  but 
the  sun,  red  and  angry,  had  been  drowned  by 
the  thick  grey  clouds  that  now  flooded  the  air 
— dimly  seen  for  an  instant  outlined  against  the 
grey — then  suddenly  non-existent,  leaving  a 


TEEEOE  129 

world  like  a  piece  of  crumpled  paper  white  and 
dark  to  all  its  boundaries. 

The  snow  fell  now  more  swiftly  but  always 
gently,  imperturbably — almost  it  might  seem 
with  the  whispering  intention  of  some  important 
message. 

Olva  was  intensely  cold.  He  buttoned  his 
coat  tightly  up  to  his  ears,  but  nevertheless  the 
air  was  so  biting  that  it  hurt.  Bunker,  with  his 
head  down,  drove  against  the  snow  that  was 
coming  now  ever  more  thickly. 

The  peace  that  there  had  been  in  the  little 
wood  was  now  utterly  gone.  The  air  seemed 
full  of  voices.  They  came  with  the  snow,  and  as 
the  flakes  blew  more  closely  against  his  face 
and  coat  there  seemed  to  press  about  him  a  mul- 
titude of  persons. 

He  drove  forward,  but  this  sense  of  oppression 
increased  with  every  step.  The  wood  had  been 
swallowed  by  the  storm.  Olva  felt  like  a  man 
who  has  long  been  struggling  with  some  vice  j 
insidiously  the  temptation  has  grown  in  force 
and  power — his  brain,  once  so  active  in  the 
struggle,  is  now  dimmed  and  dulled.  His  power 
of  resistance,  once  so  vigorous,  is  now  confused — 
confusion  grows  to  paralysis — he  can  only  now 

K 


130   THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

stare,  distressed,  at  the  dark  temptation,  there 
have  swept  over  him  such  strong  waters  that 
struggle  is  no  longer  of  avail — one  last  clutch  at 
the  vice,  one  last  desperate  and  hateful  pleasure, 
and  he  is  gone.  .  .  . 

Olva  knew  that  behind  him  in  the  storm  the 
Pursuit  was  again  upon  him.  That  brief  re- 
spite in  the  wood  had  not  been  long  granted  him. 
The  snow  choked  him,  blinded  him,  his  body  was 
desperately  cold,  his  soul  trembling  with  fear. 
On  every  side  he  was  surrounded — the  world 
had  vanished,  only  the  thin  grey  body  of  his 
dog,  panting  at  his  side,  could  be  dimly  seen. 

God  had  not  been  in  the  wood,  but  God  was 
in  the  storm.  .  .  . 

A  last  desperate  resistance  held  him.  He 
stayed  where  he  was  and  shouted  against  the 
blinding  snow. 

"  There  is  no  God.  .  .  .    There  is  no  God." 

Suddenly  his  voice  sank  to  a  whisper.  "  There 
is  no  God,"  he  muttered. 

The  dog  was  standing,  his  eyes  wide  with  terror, 
his  feet  apart,  his  body  quivering. 

Olva  gazed  into  the  storm.  Then,  desper- 
ately, he  started  to  run.  .  .  . 


CHAPTEE    VIII 

REVELATION   OF  BUNNING  (l) 


that  evening  the  College  Debating  So- 
ciety  exercised  its  mind  over  the  ques- 
tion of  Naval  Defence. 

One  gentleman,  timid  of  voice,  uncertain  in 
wit,  easily  dismayed  by  the  derisive  laughter 
of  the  opposite  party,  asserted  that  "  This 
House  considers  the  Naval  policy  of  the  present 
Government  fatal  to  the  country's  best  inter- 
ests." An  eager  politician,  with  a  shrill  voice 
and  a  torrent  of  words,  denied  this  statement. 
The  College,  with  the  exception  of  certain 
gentlemen  destined  for  the  Church  (they  had 
been  told  by  their  parents  to  speak  on  every 
possible  public  occasion  in  order  to  be  ready  for 
a  prospective  pulpit),  displayed  a  sublime  and 
somnolent  indifference.  The  four  gentlemen 
on  the  paper  had  prepared  their  speeches  be- 
forehand and  were  armed  with  notes  and  a 
m 


132   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

certain  nervous  fluency.  For  the  rest,  the 
question  was  but  slightly  assisted.  The  pros- 
pective members  of  the  Church  thought  of 
many  things  to  say  until  they  rose  to  their  feet 
when  they  could  only  remember  "  that  the  last 
gentleman's  speech  had  been  the  most  pre- 
posterous thing  they  had  ever  had  the  pleasure 
of  listening  to — and  that,  er — er — the  Navy  was 
all  right,  and,  er — if  the  gentleman  who  had 
spoken  last  but  two  thought  it  wasn't,  well  all 
they — er — could  say  was  that  it  reminded  them 
— er — of  a  story  they  had  once  heard  (here  fol- 
lows story'  without  point,  conclusion  or  bre- 
vity)— and — er — in  fact  the  Navy  was  all 
right.  .  .  ." 

The  Deb  ate,  in  short,  was  languishing  when 
Dune  and  Cardillac  entered  the  room  together. 
Here  was  an  amazing  thing. 

It  was  well  known  that  only  last  night  Cardillac 
and  Dune  had  both  been  proposed  for  the  office 
of  President  of  the  Wolves.  The  Wolves,  a 
society  of  twelve  founded  for  the  purpose  of 
dining  well  and  dressing  beautifully,  was  the 
smartest  thing  by  far  that  Saul's  possessed.  It 
was  famous  throughout  the  University  for  the 
noise  and  extravagance  of  its  dinners,  and  you 


BEVELATION  OF  BURNING        133 

might  not  belong  to  it  unless  you  had  played  for 
the  University  on  at  least  one  occasion  in  some 
game  or  another  and  unless,  be  it  understood, 
you  were,  in  yourself,  quite  immensely  de- 
sirable. Towards  the  end  of  every  Christmas 
term  a  President  for  the  ensuing  year  was 
elected  ;  he  must  be  a  second  year  man,  and  it 
was  considered  by  the  whole  college  that  this 
was  the  highest  honour  that  the  gods  could  possi- 
bly, during  your  stay  at  Cambridge,  confer  upon 
you.  Even  the  members  of  the  Christian 
Union,  horrified  though  they  were  by  the 
amount  of  wine  that  was  drunk  on  dining  occa- 
sions and  the  consequent  peril  to  their  own 
goods  and  chattels,  bowed  to  the  shining  splen- 
dour of  the  fortunate  hero.  It  had  never  yet 
been  known  that  a  President  of  the  Wolves  should 
also  be  a  member  of  the  Christian  Union,  but 
one  must  never  despair,  and  nets,  the  most 
attractive  and  genial  of  nets,  were  flung  to 
catch  the  great  man. 

On  the  present  occasion  it  had  been  generally 
understood  that  Cardillac  would  be  elected 
without  any  possible  opposition.  Dune  had 
not  for  a  moment  occurred  to  any  one.  He  had, 
during  his  first  term,  when  his  football  prowess 


134   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVESTTUEE 

had  passed,  swinging  through  the  University, 
been  elected  to  the  Wolves,  but  he  had  only 
attended  one  dinner  and  had  then  remained 
severely  and  unpleasantly  sober.  There  was 
no  other  possible  rival  to  Cardillac,  to  his  dis- 
tinction, his  power  of  witty  and  malicious  after- 
dinner  speaking,  his  wonderful  clothes,  his 
admirable  football,  his  haughty  indifference.  He 
would  of  course  be  elected. 

And  then,  some  three  weeks  ago,  this  wonder- 
ful, unexpected  development  of  Olva  Dune  had 
startled  the  world.  His  football,  his  sudden 
geniality,  (he  had  been  seen,  it  was  asserted,  at 
one  of  Med-Tetloe's  revival  meetings  with 
Bunning  of  all  people  in  the  world),  his  air  of 
being  able  to  do  anything  whatever  if  he  wished 
to  exert  himself,  here  was  a  character  indeed — 
so  wonderful  that  it  was  felt,  even  by  the  most 
patriotic  of  Saulines,  that  he  ought,  in  reality, 
to  have  belonged  to  St.  Martin's. 

It  became  at  once,  of  course,  a  case  of  rivalry 
between  Dune  and  Cardillac,  and  it  was  con- 
fidently expected  that  Dune  would  be  victorious 
in  every  part  of  the  field. 

Cardillac  had  reigned  for  a  considerable  period 
and  there  were  many  men  to  whom  he  had  been 


BEVELATION  OF  BURNING       135 

exceedingly  offensive.  Dune,  although  he  ad- 
mitted no  one  to  closer  intimacy,  was  offensive 
never.  If,  moreover,  you  had  seen  him  play 
the  other  day  against  the  Harlequins,  you  could 
but  fall  down  on  your  knees  and  worship.  Here, 
too,  he  rivalled  Cardillac.  Tester,  Buchan, 
and  Whymper  were  quite  certain  of  their  places 
in  the  University  side — Whymper  because  he 
was  the  greatest  three-quarter  that  Cambridge 
had  had  for  many  seasons,  and  Tester  and  Buchan 
because  they  had  been  at  Fettes  together  and 
Buchan  had  played  inside  right  to  Tester's 
outside  since  the  very  tenderest  age ;  they 
therefore  understood  one  another  backward. 
There  remained  then  only  this  fourth  place,  and 
Cardillac  seemed  certain  enough  .  .  .  until 
Dune's  revival.  And  now  it  depended  on 
Whymper.  He  would  choose,  of  the  two  men, 
the  one  who  suited  him  best.  Cardillac  had 
played  with  him  more  than  had  Dune.  Car- 
dillac was  safe,  steady,  reliable.  Dune  was 
uncertain,  capricious,  suddenly  indifferent.  On 
the  other  hand  not  Whymper  himself  could 
rival  the  brilliance  of  Dune's  game  against 
the  Harlequins.  That  was  in  a  place  by  itself 
— let  him  play  like  that  at  Queen's  dub  in 


136   THE  PEELUDB  TO  ADVENTURE 

December  and  no  Oxford  defence  could  stop 
him. 

So  it  was  argued,  so  discussed.  Certain,  at 
any  rate,  that  Dune's  recrudescence  threatened 
the  ruin  of  Cardillac's  two  dearest  ambitions, 
and  Cardillac  did  not  easily  either  forget  or 
forgive. 

And  yet  behold  them  now,  gravely,  the  gaze 
of  the  entire  company,  entering  together,  sitting 
together  by  the  fire,  watching  with  serious  eyes 
the  clumsy  efforts  of  an  unhappily  ambitious 
Freshman  to  make  clear  his  opinions  of  the  Navy, 
the  Government  and  the  British  Islands  gener- 
ally—only, ultimately,  producing  a  tittering, 
stammering  apology  for  having  burdened  so 
long  with  his  hapless  clamour,  the  Debate. 


Olva  liked  Cardillac — Cardillac  liked  Olva. 
They  both  in  their  attitude  to  College  affairs 
saw  beyond  the  College  gates  into  the  wide 
and  bright  world.  Cardillac,  when  it  had 
seemed  that  no  danger  could  threaten  either 


BEVELATION  OF  BUOTING       137 

his  election  to  the  Wolves  or  the  acquisition 
of  his  Football  Blue,  had  regarded  both  hon- 
ours quietly  and  with  indifference.  It  amazed 
him  now  when  both  these  Prizes  were  seri- 
ously threatened  that  he  should  still  appre- 
ciate and  even  seek  out  Dune's  company. 

Had  it  been  any  other  man  in  the  College  he 
would  have  been  a  very  active  enemy,  but  here 
was  the  one  man  who  had  that  larger  air,  that 
finer  style — whose  gravity  was  beautiful,  whose 
soul  was  beyond  Wolves  and  Eugby  football, 
whose  future  in  the  real  world  promised  to  be 
of  a  fine  and  highly  ordered  kind.  Cardillac 
wished  eagerly  that  these  things  might  yet  be 
his,  but  if  he  were  to  be  beaten,  then,  of  all 
men  in  the  world,  let  it  be  by  Dune.  In  his 
own  scant,  cynical  estimate  of  his  fellow-beings 
Dune  alone  demanded  a  wide  and  appreciative 
attention. 

To  Olva  on  this  evening  it  mattered  but  little 
where  he  was  or  what  he  did.  The  snow  had 
ceased  to  fall,  and  now,  under  a  starry  sky, 
lay  white  and  glistening  clear ;  but  still  with 
him  that  storm  seemed  to  hover,  its  snow  beating 
his  body,  its  fury  yielding  him  no  respite. 

And  now  there  was  no  longer  any   doubt. 


138   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

He  faced  it  with,  the  most  matter-of-fact  self- 
possession  of  which  he  was  capable.  Some- 
thing was  waiting  for  his  surrender.  He 
figured  it,  sitting  quietly  back  in  the  reading- 
room,  listening  to  the  Debate,  watching  the 
faces  around  him,  as  the  tracing  of  some  one 
who  was  dearly  loved.  There  was  nothing 
stranger  in  it  all  than  his  own  certainty  that 
the  Power  that  pursued  him  was  tender.  And 
here  he  crossed  the  division  between  the  Eeal 
and  the  Unreal,  because  his  present  conscious- 
ness of  this  Power  was  as  actual  as  his  con- 
sciousness of  the  chairs  and  tables  that  filled 
the  reading-room.  That  was  the  essential 
thing  that  made  the  supreme  gulf  between  him- 
self and  his  companions.  It  was  not  because  he 
had  murdered  Carfax  but  because  he  was  now 
absolutely  conscious  of  God  that  he  was  so 
alone.  He  could  not  touch  his  human  com- 
panions, he  could  scarcely  see  them.  It  was 
through  this  isolation  that  God  was  driving 
him  to  confession.  Now,  in  the  outer  Court, 
huge  against  the  white  dazzling  snow,  the  great 
shadow  was  hovering,  its  head  piercing  the 
stars,  its  arms  outstretched.  Let  him  sur- 
render and  at  once  there  would  be  infinite  peace, 


EEYELATION   OF  BURNING       139 

but  with  surrender  must  come  submission,  con- 
fession .  .  .  with  confession  he  must  lose  the 
one  thing  that  he  desired — Margaret  Craven 
.  .  .  that  he  might  go  and  talk  to  her,  watch 
her,  listen  to  her  voice.  Meanwhile  he  must  not 
think.  If  he  allowed  his  brain,  for  an  instant, 
to  rest,  it  was  flooded  with  the  sweeping  con- 
sciousness of  the  Presence — always  he  must  be 
doing  something,  his  football,  his  companions, 
and  often  at  the  end  of  it  all,  calmly,  quietly, 
betrayed — hearing  above  all  the  clatter  that 
he  might  make  the  gentle  accents  of  that  Voice. 
He  remembered  that  peace  that  he  had  had  in 
St.  Martin's  Chapel  on  the  day  of  the  discovery 
of  the  body.  What  he  would  give  to  reclaim 
that  now ! 

Meanwhile  he  must  battle ;  must  quiet  Craven's 
suspicions,  must  play  football,  join  company 
with  men  who  seemed  to  him  now  like  shadows. 
As  he  glanced  round  at  them — at  Lawrence, 
Bunning,  Galleon,  Cardillac — they  seemed  to 
have  far  less  existence  than  the  grey  shadow 
in  the  outer  Court.  Sounds  passed  him  like 
smoke — the  lights  grew  faint  in  his  eyes  .  .  . 
he  was  being  drawn  out  into  a  world  that  was 
all  of  ice — black  ice  stretching  to  every  horizon  ; 


140   THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

on  the  edge  of  it,  vast  against  the  night  sky, 
was  the  Grey  Figure,  waiting. 

"  Come  to  Me.  Tell  Me  that  yon  will  follow 
Me.  I  spoke  to  yon  in  the  wood.  Yon  have 
broken  My  law.  .  .  ." 

"  Lot  of  piffle,"  he  heard  Cardillac's  voice 
from  a  great  distance.  "  These  freshers  are 
always  gassing."  The  electric  light,  seen  throngh 
a  clond  of  tobacco  smoke,  came  slowly  back 
to  him,  dull  globes  of  colour. 

"  It's  so  hot — I'm  cutting,"  he  whispered  to 
Cardillac,  and  slipped  out  of  the  room. 

He  climbed  to  his  room,  flung  back  his  door 
and  saw  that  his  light  was  turned  on. 

Facing  him,  waiting  for  him,  was  Bunning. 


3 

"  If  you  don't  want  me "  he  began  with 

his  inane  giggle. 

"  Sit  down."  Olva  pulled  out  the  whisky 
and  two  siphons  of  soda.  "  If  I  didn't  want  you 
I'd  say  so." 

He  filled  himself  a  strong  glass  of  whisky  and 
soda  and  began  feverishly  to  drink. 


EEVELATION  OF  BURNING 

Bnnning  sat  down. 

"  Don't  be  such  a  blooming  fool.  Take  off 
your  gown  if  you're  going  to  stop." 

Bunning  meekly  took  off  his  gown.  His 
spectacles  seemed  so  large  that  they  swallowed 
up  the  rest  of  his  face ;  the  spectacles  and  the 
enormous  flat-toed  boots  were  the  principal 
features  of  Bunning's  attire.  He  sat  down 
again  and  gazed  at  Olva  with  the  eyes  of  a 
devoted  dog.  Olva  looked  at  him.  Over  Bun- 
ning's red  wrists  the  brown  ends  of  a  Jaeger  vest 
protruded  from  under  the  shirt. 

"  I  say,  why  don't  you  dress  properly  t  " 

"  I  don't  know "  began  Bunning. 

"  Well,  the  sleeves  of  your  vest  needn't  come 
down  like  that.  It  looks  horribly  dirty.  Turn 
'em  up." 

Bunning,  blushing  almost  to  tears,  turned  them 
back. 

"  There's  no  need  to  make  yourself  worse 
than  you  are,  you  know."  Olva  finished  his 
whisky  and  poured  out  some  more.  "  Why 
do  you  come  here  ?  .  .  .  I'm  always  beastly 
to  you." 

"  As  long  as  you  let  me  come — I  don't  mind 
how  beastly  you  are. " 


142   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

"  But  what  do  you  get  from  it  !  " 

Bunning  looked  down  at  his  huge  boots. 

"  Everything.  But  it  isn't  that — it  is  that, 
without  being  here,  I  haven't  got  anything 
else." 

"  Well,  you  needn't  wear  such  boots  as  that 
— and  your  shirts  and  things  aren't  clean. 
.  .  .  You  don't  mind  my  telling  you,  do 
you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  like  it.    Nobody's  ever  told  me." 

Here  obviously  was  a  new  claim  for  intimacy 
and  this  Olva  hurriedly  disavowed. 

"  Oh !    It's   only  for   your   own  good,   you 
know.    Fellows  will  like  you  better  if  you're  i 
\decently    dressed.    Why    hasn't  any  one  ever 
told  you  f  " 

"  They'd  given  me  up  at  home."  Bunning 
heaved  a  great  sigh. 

"  Why  T    Who  are  your  people  t  " 

"  My  father's  a  parson  in  Yorkshire.  They're 
all  clergymen  in  my  family — uncles,  cousins, 
everybody — my  elder  brother.  I  was  to  have 
been  a  clergyman." 

"  Was  to  have  been  f  Aren't  you  going  to 
be  one  now  f  " 

"No — not  since  I  met  you." 


EEVELATION  OF  BOTTLING       143 

"  Oh,  but  yon  mustn't  take  such  a  step  on  my 
account.  I  don't  want  to  prevent  yon.  I've 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  should  think  yon'd 
make  a  very  good  parson." 

Olva  was  brutal.  He  felt  that  in  Bunning's 
moist  devoted  eyes  there  was  a  dim  pain.  But 
he  was  brutal  because  his  whole  soul  revolted 
against  sentimentality,  not  at  all  because  his 
soul  revolted  against  Bunning. 

"  No,  I  shouldn't  make  a  good  parson.  I 
never  wanted  to  be  one  really.  But  when  your 
house  is  full  of  it,  as  our  house  was,  you're 
driven.  When  it  wasn't  relations  it  was  all 
sorts  of  people  in  the  parish — helpers  and 
workers — women  mostly.  I  hated  them." 

Here  was  a  real  note  of  passion !  Bunning 
seemed,  for  an  instant,  to  be  quite  vigorous. 

"  That's  why  I'm  so  untidy  now,"  Bunning 
went  desperately  on ;  "  nobody  cared  how  I 
looked.  I  was  stupid  at  school,  my  reports 
were  awful,  and  I  was  a  day  boy.  It  is  very 
bad  for  any  one  to  be  a  day  boy — very  !  "  he 
added  reflectively,  as  though  he  were  recalling 
scenes  and  incidents. 

"  Yes  t  "  said  Olva  encouragingly.  He  was 
being  drawn  by  Bunning's  artless  narration 


144   THE  PEELTJDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

away  from  the  Shadow.  It  was  still  there, 
its  arm  outstretched  above  the  snowy  court,  but 
Bunning  seemed,  in  some  odd  way,  to  intervene. 

"  I  always  wanted  to  find  God  in  those  days. 
It  sounds  a  stupid  thing  to  say,  but  they  used  to 
speak  about  Him — mother  and  the  rest — just 
as  though  He  lived  down  the  street.  They 
knew  all  about  Him  and  I  used  to  wonder  why 
I  didn't  know  too.  But  I  didn't.  It  wasn't  real 
to  me.  I  used  to  make  myself  think  that  it 
was,  but  it  wasn't.'* 

"  Why  didn't  you  talk  to  your  mother  about 
itt" 

"  I  did.  But  they  were  always  too  busy  with 
missions  and  things.  And  then  there  was  my 
elder  brother.  He  understood  about  God  and 
went  to  all  the  Bible  meetings  and  things,  and 
he  was  always  so  neat — never  dirty — I  used  to 
wonder  how  he  did  it  ...  always  so  neat." 

Bunning  took  off  his  great  spectacles  and 
wiped  them  with  a  very  dirty  handkerchief. 

"  And  had  you  no  friends  t  " 

"  None — nobody.  I  didn't  want  them  after 
a  bit.  I  was  afraid  of  everybody.  I  used  to 
go  down  all  the  side-streets  between  school  and 
home  for  fear  lest  I  should  meet  some  one.  I 


BEVELATION  OF  BURNING       145 

was  always  very  nervous  as  a  boy — very.  I 
still  am." 

"  Nervous  of  people  T  " 

"  Yes,  of  everybody.  And  of  things,  too — 
things.  I  still  am.  You'd  be  surprised.  .  .  .  It's 
odd  because  none  of  the  other  Bunnings  are 
nervous.  I  used  to  have  fancies  about  God." 

"  What  sort  of  fancies  ?  " 

"  I  used  to  see  Him  when  I  was  in  bed  like  a 
great  big  shadow,  all  up  against  the  wall.  A 
grey  shadow  with  his  head  ever  so  high.  That's 
how  I  used  to  think  of  Him.  I  expect  that  all 
sounds  nonsense  to  you." 

"  No,  not  at  all !  "  said  Olva. 

"  I  think  they  thought  me  nearly  an  idiot  at 
home — not  sane  at  all.  But  they  didn't  think 
of  me  very  often.  They  used  to  apologise  for 
me  when  people  came  to  tea.  I  wasn't  clever,  of 
course — that's  why  they  thought  I'd  make  a 
good  parson." 

He  paused — then  very  nervously  he  went  on. 
"  But  now  I've  met  you  I  shan't  be.  Nothing 
can  make  me.  I've  always  watched  you.  I 
used  to  look  at  you  in  chapel.  You're  just  as 
different  from  me  as  any  one  can  be,  and  that's 
why  you're  like  God  to  me.  I  don't  want  you 


146   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

to  be  decent  to  me.    I  think  I'd  rather  you 
weren't.    But  I  like  to  come  in  sometimes  and 
\    hear  you  say  that  I'm  dirty  and  untidy.    That 
shows  that  you've  noticed." 

"  But  I'm  not  at  all  the  sort  of  person  to 
make  a  hero  of,"  Olva  said  hurriedly.  "  I 
don't  want  you  to  feel  like  that  about  me. 
That's  all  sentimentality.  You  mustn't  feel 
like  that  about  anybody.  You  must  stand  on 
your  own  legs." 

•  "  I  never  have,"  said  Bunning,  very  solemnly, 
"  and  I  never  will.  I've  always  had  somebody 
to  make  a  hero  of.  I  would  love  to  die  for  you,  I 
would  really.  It's  the  only  sort  of  thing  that  I 
can  do,  because  I'm  not  clever.  I  know  you 
think  me  very  stupid." 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  said  Olva,  "  and  you  mustn't 
talk  like  a  schoolgirl.  If  we're  friends  and  I  let 
you  come  in  here,  you  mustn't  let  your  vest 
come  over  your  cuffs  and  you  must  take  those 
spots  off  your  waistcoat,  and  brush  your  hair 
and  clean  your  nails,  and  you  must  just  be 
sensible  and  have  a  little  humour.  Why  don't 
you  play  football  ?  " 

"  I  can't  play  games,  I'm  very  short-sighted." 

"  Well,  you  must  take  some  sort  of  exercise. 


EEVELATION   OF  BUOTNG       147 

Bun  round  Parker's  Piece  or  something,  or  go 
and  run  at  Former's.  You'll  get  so  fat." 

"  I  am  getting  fat.  I  don't  think  it  matters 
much  what  I  look  like." 

"  It  matters  what  every  one  looks  like.  And 
now  you'd  better  cut.  I've  got  to  go  out  and 
see  a  man." 

Bunning  submissively  rose.  He  said  no  more 
but  bundled  out  of  the  door  in  his  usual  untidy 
fashion.  Olva  came  after  him  and  banged  his 
"  oak "  behind  him.  In  Outer  Court,  looking 
now  so  vast  and  solemn  in  the  silence  of  its 
snow,  Bunning,  stopping,  pointed  to  the  grey 
buildings  that  towered  over  them. 

"  It  was  against  a  wall  like  that  that  I  used 
to  imagine  God — on  a  night  like  this — you'll 
think  that  very  silly."  He  hurriedly  added, 
"  There's  Marshall  coming.  I  know  he'll  be 
at  me  about  those  Christian  Union  Cards. 
Good-night."  He  vanished. 

But  it  was  not  Marshall.  It  was  Eupert  Craven. 
The  boy  was  walking  hurriedly,  his  eyes  on  the 
ground.  He  was  suddenly  conscious  of  some 
one  and  looked  up.  The  change  in  him  was 
extraordinary.  His  eyes  had  the  heavy,  dazed 
look  of  one  who  has  not  slept  for  weeks.  His 


148   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

face  was  a  yellow  white,  his  hair  unbrushed  and 
his  month  moved  restlessly.  He  started  when  he 
saw  Olva. 

"  Hallo,  Craven.  You're  looking  seedy. 
What's  the  matter?" 

"  Nothing,  thanks.  .  .  .  Good-night." 

"  No,  but  wait  a  minute.  Come  up  to  my 
rooms  and  have  some  coffee.  I  haven't  seen 
you  for  days." 

A  fortnight  ago  Craven  would  have  accepted 
with  joy.  Now  he  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  thanks.  I'm  tired.  I  haven't  been 
sleeping  very  well." 

"  Why's  that  1     Overwork  !  " 

"  No,  it's  nothing.  I  don't  know  why  it 
is." 

"  You  ought  to  see  somebody.  I  know  what 
not  sleeping  means." 

"  Why  ?  .  .  .  Are  you  sleeping  badly  f  " 
Craven's  eyes  met  Olva's. 

"  No,  I'm  splendid,  thanks.  But  I  had  a 
bout  of  insomnia  years  ago.  I  shan't  forget 
it." 

"  You  look  all  right."  Craven's  eyes  were 
busily  searching  Olva's  face.  Then  suddenly 
they  dropped. 


REVELATION  OF  BUKN1NG        149 

"  I'm  all  right,"  lie  said  hurriedly.  "  Tired, 
that's  all." 

"  Why  do  you  never  come  and  see  me  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  will  come — sometime.    I'm  busy." 

"  What  about  ?  " 

Olva  stood,  a  stern  dark  figure,  against  the 
snow. 

"  Oh,  just  busy."  Craven  suddenly  looked 
up  as  though  he  were  going  to  ask  Olva  a  question. 
Then  he  apparently  changed  his  mind,  mut- 
tered a  good-night  and  disappeared  round  the 
corner  of  the  building. 

Olva  was  alone  in  the  Court.  From  some 
room  came  the  sound  of  voices  and  laughter, 
from  some  other  room  a  piano — some  one  called 
a  name  in  Little  Court.  A  sheet  of  stars  drew 
the  white  light  from  the  snow  to  heaven. 

Olva  turned  very  slowly  and  entered  his  black 
stairway. 

In  his  heart  he  was  crying,  "  How  long  can  I 
stand  this  t  Another ,  day  t  Another  hour  ! 
This  loneliness.  ...  I  must  break  it.  I  must 
tell  some  one.  I  must  tell  some  one." 

As  he  entered  his  room  he  thought  that  he 
saw  against  the  farther  wall  an  old  gilt  mirror 
and  in  the  light  of  it  a  dark  figure  facing  him ; 


f 


150   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVEtfTUBE 

a  voice,  heavy  with  some  great  overburdening 
sorrow,  spoke  to  him. 

"  How  terrible  a  thing  it  is  to  be  alone  with  ) 
Godl" 


CHAPTEE    IX 

REVELATION  OP  BUNNING   (n) 

1 

next  day  the  frost  broke,  and  after  a 
practice  game  on  the  Said's  ground,  in 
preparation  for  a  rugby  match  at  the  end 
of  the  week,  Olva,  bathed  and  feeling  physically 
a  tremendous,  overwhelming  fitness,  went  to  see 
Margaret  Craven. 

This  sense  of  his  physical  well-being  was 
extraordinary.  Mentally  he  was  nearly  beaten, 
almost  at  the  limit  of  his  endurance.  Spiritually 
the  catastrophe  hovered  more  closely  above 
him  at  every  advancing  moment,  but,  physically, 
he  had  never,  in  all  his  life  before,  felt  this 
magnificent  health.  He  had  been  sleeping 
badly  now  for  weeks.  He  had  been  eating  very- 
little,  but  he  felt  no  weariness,  no  faintness. 
It  was  as  though  his  body  were  urging  upon 
him  the  importance  of  his  resistance,  as  though 
he  were  perceiving,  too,  with  unmistakable 
clearness  the  cleavage  that  there  was  between 

161 


152   THE  PEELUDB  TO  ADVENTUEE 

body  and  soul.  And  indeed  this  vigour  did 
give  him  an  energy  to  set  about  the  numberless 
things  that  he  had  arranged  to  fill  every  moment 
of  his  day — the  many  little  tinkling  bells  that 
he  had  set  going  to  hide  the  urgent  whisper 
of  that  other  voice.  He  carried  his  day  through 
with  a  rush,  a  whirl,  so  that  he  might  be  in  bed 
again  at  night  almost  before  he  had  finished 
his  dressing  in  the  morning — no  pause,  no 
opportunity  for  silence.  .  .  . 

And  now  he  must  see  Margaret  Craven,  see  her 
for  herself,  but  also  see  her  to  talk  to  her  about  her 
brother.  How  much  did  Eupert  Craven  know  t 
How  much — and  here  was  the  one  tremendous 
question — had  he  told  his  sister  t  As  Olva 
waited,  once  again,  in  the  musty  hall,  saw  once 
more  the  dim  red  glass  of  the  distant  window, 
smelt  again  the  scent  of  oranges,  his  heart  was 
beating  so  that  he  could  not  hear  the  old  woman's 
trembling  voice.  How  would  Margaret  receive 
him  ?  Would  there  be  in  her  eyes  that  shadow 
of  distrust  that  he  always  saw  now  in  Eupert's  f 
His  knees  were  trembling  and  he  had  to  stay  for 
an  instant  and  pull  himself  together  before  he 
crossed  the  drawing-room  threshold. 

And  then  he  was,  instantly,  reassured.    Mar- 


EEVELATION   OF  BTJNNING       153 

garet  was  alone  in  the  dim  room,  and  as  she 
came  to  meet  him  he  saw  in  her  approach  to  him 
that  she  had  been  wanting  him.  In  her  ex- 
tended hands  he  found  a  welcome  that  implied 
also  a  need.  He  felt,  as  he  met  her  and  greeted 
her  and  looked  again  into  the  grave,  tender 
eyes  that  he  had  been  wanting  so  badly  ever 
since  he  had  seen  them  last,  that  there  was 
nothing  more  wonderful  than  the  way  that  their 
relationship  advanced  between  every  meeting. 
They  met,  exchanged  a  word  or  two  and  parted, 
but  in  the  days  that  separated  them  their  spirits 
seemed  to  leap  together,  to  crowd  into  lonely 
hours  a  communion  that  bound  them  more 
closely  than  any  physical  intimacy  could  do. 

"  Oh !  I'm  so  glad  you've  come.  I  had 
hoped  it,  wanted  it." 

He  sat  down  close  to  her,  his  dark  eyes  on  her 
face. 

"  You're  in  trouble  T    I  can  see." 

She  bent  her  eyes  gravely  on  the  fire,  and  as 
slowly  she  tried  to  put  together  the  things  that 
she  wished  to  say  he  felt,  in  her  earnest  thought- 
fulness,  a  rest,  a  relief,  so  wonderful  that  it 
was  like  plunging  his  body  into  cool  water 
after  a  long  and  arid  journey. 


154   THE  PEELUBE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

"  No,  it  is  nothing.  I  don't  want  to  make 
things  more  overwhelming  than  they  are.  Only, 
it  is,  I  think,  simply  that  during  these  last  days 
when  mother  and  Eupert  have  both  been  ill,  I 
"have  been  overwhelmed." 

"  Eupert  t " 

"  Yes,  we'll  come  to  him  in  a  moment.  You 
must  remember,"  she  smiled  up  at  him  as  she 
said  it,  "  that  I'm  not  the  least  the  kind  of 
person  who  makes  the  best  of  things — in  fact 
I'm  not  a  useful  person  at  all.  I  suppose 
being  abroad  so  long  with  my  music  spoiled 
me,  but  whatever  it  is  I  seem  unable  to 
wrestle  with  things.  They  frighten  me,  over- 
whelm me,  as  I  say  .  .  .  I'm  frightened 
now." 

He  looked  up  at  her  last  word  and  caught  a 
corner  reflection  in  the  old  gilt  mirror — a  re- 
flection of  a  multitude  of  little  things,  silver 
boxes,  photograph  frames,  old  china  pots,  little 
Bilk  squares,  lying  like  scattered  treasures  from 
a  wreck  on  a  dark  sea. 

"  What  are  you  frightened  about  t  " 

"  Well,  there  it  is — nothing  I  suppose.  Only 
I'm  not  good  at  managing  sick  people,  especially 
•when  there's  nothing  definitely  the  matter 


EEVELATION  OP  BOTOTtfG        155 

with  them.  It's  a  case  with  all  three  of  us — a 
case  of  nerves." 

"  Well,  that's  as  serious  a  thing  as  any  other 
disease." 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  it. 
Mother  lies  there  all  day.  She  seldom  speaks, 
she  scarcely  eats  anything.  She  entirely  refuses 
to  have  a  doctor.  But  worse  than  that  is  the 
extraordinary  feeling  that  she  has  had  during 
this  last  week  about  Eupert.  She  refuses  to  see 
him,"  Margaret  Craven  finally  brought  out. 

"  Eefuses  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  says  that  he  is  altered  to  her.  She 
says  that  he  will  not  let  her  alone,  that  he  is 
imagining  things.  Poor  Eupert  is  most  terribly 
distressed.  He  is  imagining  nothing.  He  would 
do  anything  for  her,  he  is  devoted  to  her." 

"  Since  when  has  she  had  this  idea  T  " 

"  You  remember  the  day  that  you  came  last  f 
when  Eupert  came  in  and  had  found  your 
matchbox.  It  began  about  then.  ...  Of 
course  Eupert  has  not  been  well — he  has  never 
been  well  since  that  dreadful  death  of  Mr.  Carfax, 
and  certainly  since  that  day  when  you  were  here 
I  think  that  he's  been  worse — strange,  utterly 
unlike  himself,  sleeping  badly,  eating  nothing. 


156   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTTJEE 

Poor,  poor  Bupert,  I  would  do  anything  for  him, 
for  them  both,  but  I  am  so  utterly,  utterly 
useless.  What  can  I  do  ?  "  she  finally  appealed 
to  him. 

"  You  said  once,"  he  answered  her  slowly, 
"  that  I  could  help  you.  If  you  still  feel  that, 
tell  me,  and  I  will  do  anything,  anything.  You 
know  that  I  will  do  anything." 

They  came  together,  in  that  terrible  room, 
like  two  children  out  of  the  dark.  He  suddenly 
caught  her  hand  and  she  let  him  hold  it.  Then, 
very  gently,  she  withdrew  it. 

"  I  think  that  you  can  make  all  the  difference," 
she  answered  slowly.  "  Mother  often  speaks 
of  you.  I  told  you  before  that  she  wants  so 
much  to  see  you,  and  if  you  would  do  that,  if  you 
would  go  up,  for  just  a  little  time,  and  sit  with 
her,  I  believe  you  would  soothe  her  as  no  one 
else  can.  I  don't  know  why  I  feel  that,  but  I 
know  that  she  feels  it  too.  You  are  restful," 
she  said  suddenly,  with  a  smile,  flung  up  at  him. 

And  again,  as  on  the  earlier  occasion,  he 
shrank  from  the  thing  that  she  asked  him.  He 
had  felt,  from  the  very  moment  this  afternoon 
that  he  had  entered  the  house,  that  that  thing 
would  be  asked  of  him.  Mrs.  Craven  wanted 


EEVELATION  OF  BUNNING       157 

him.  He  could  feel  the  compulsion  of  her  wish 
drawing  him  through  walls  and  floors  and  all 
the  obstructions  of  the  world. 

"  Of  course  I'll  go,"   he   said. 

"  Ah !  that  will  help.  It  would  be  so  good 
of  you.  Poor  mother,  it's  lonely  for  her  up 
there  all  day,  and  I  know  that  she  thinks  about 
things,  about  father,  and  it's  not  good  for  her. 
You  might  perhaps  say  a  word  too  about  Eupert. 
I  cannot  imagine  what  it  is  that  she  is  feeling 
about  him."  She  paused,  and  then  with  a 
sigh,  rising  from  her  chair,  longingly  brought 
out, "  Oh  !  but  for  all  of  us  !  to  get  away — out 
of  this  house,  out  of  this  place,  that's  the  thing 
we  want !  " 

She  stood  there  in  her  black  dress,  so  simply, 
so  appealingly  before  him,  that  it  was  all  that 
he  could  do  not  to  catch  her  in  his  arms  and 
hold  her.  He  did  indeed  rise  and  stand  beside 
her,  and  there  in  silence,  with  the  dim  room 
about  them,  the  oppressive  silence  so  ominous 
and  sinister,  they  came  together  with  a  closeness 
that  no  earlier  intercourse  had  given  them." 

Olva  seemed,  for  a  short  space,  to  be  re- 
lieved from  his  burdens.  For  them  both,  so 
young,  BO  helpless  against  powers  that  were 


158  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

ruthless  in  the  accomplishment  of  wider  destinies, 
they  were  allowed  to  find  in  these  silent  minutes 
a  brief  reprieve. 

Then,  with  the  sudden  whirring  and  shrill 
clatter  of  an  ancient  clock,  action  began  again, 
but  before  the  striking  hour  had  entirely  died 
away,  he  said  to  her,  "Whatever  happens,  we 
are,  at  any  rate,  friends.  We  can  snatch  a 
moment  together  even  out  of  the  worst 
catastrophe." 

"  You're  afraid  ...  I  w  Her  breath  caught, 
as  she  flung  a  look  about  the  room. 

"  One  never  knows." 

"  It  is  all  so  strange.  There  in  Dresden 
everything  was  so  happy,  so  undisturbed,  the 
music  and  one's  friends ;  it  was  all  so  natural. 
And  now — here — with  Eupert  and  mother — 
it's  like  walking  in  one's  sleep." 

"  Well,  I'll  walk  with  you,"  he  assured  her. 

But  indeed  that  was  exactly  what  it  was 
like,  he  thought,  as  he  climbed  the  old  and 
creaking  stairs.  How  often  had  one  dreamed 
of  the  old  dark  house,  the  dusty  latticed  windows, 
the  stairs  with  the  gaping  boards,  at  last  that 
thin  dark  passage  into  which  doors  so  dimly 
opened,  that  had  black  chasms  at  either  end 


EEVELATION  OF  BUNKING       159 

of  it,  whose  very  shadows  seemed  to  demand  the 
dripping  of  some  distant  water  and  the  shudder 
of  some  trembling  blind.  In  a  dream  too  there 
was  that  sense  of  inevitability,  of  treading 
unaccustomed  ways  with  an  assured,  accustomed 
tread  that  was  with  him  now.  The  old  woman 
who  had  conducted  him  stopped  at  a  door, 
hidden  by  the  dusk,  and  knocked.  She  opened 
it  and  wheezed  out — 

"  Mr.  Dune,  m'am ; "  and  then,  standing 
back  for  him  to  pass,  left  him  inside. 

As  the  door  closed  he  was  instantly  conscious 
of  an  overwhelming  desire  for  air,  a  longing 
to  fling  open  the  little  diamond-paned  window. 
The  ceiling  was  very  low  and  a  fierce  fire  burned 
in  the  fireplace.  There  was  little  furniture,  only  a 
huge  white  bed  hovered  in  the  background.  Olva 
was  conscious  of  a  dark  figure  lying  on  a  low 
chair  by  the  fire,  a  figure  that  gave  you  instantly 
those  long  white  hands  and  those  burning  eyes 
and  gave  you  afterwards  more  slowly  the  rest 
of  the  outline.  But  its  supreme  quality  was 
its  immobility.  That  head,  that  body,  those 
hands,  never  moved,  only  behind  its  dark 
outline  the  bright  fire  crackled  and  flung  its 
shadows  upon  the  wall. 


160   THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVEOTUBE 

"  I  am  sony  that  you  are  not  so  well." 

Mrs.  Craven's  dark  eyes  searched  his  face. 
"  You  are  restful  to  me.  I  like  you  to  come. 
But  I  would  not  intrude  upon  your  time." 

Olva  said,  "  I  am  very  glad  to  come  if  I  can 
be  of  any  service.  If  there  is  anything  that  I 
can  do." 

The  eyes  seemed  the  only  part  of  her  body  that 
lived.  It  was  the  eyes  that  spoke.  "  No,  there 
is  nothing  that  any  one  can  do.  I  do  not  care 
for  talking.  Soon  I  will  be  downstairs  again,  I 
hope.  It  is  lonely  for  my  daughter." 

"  There  is  Eupert." 

At  the  mention  of  the  name  her  eyes  were 
suddenly  sheathed.  It  was  like  the  instant 
quenching  of  some  light.  She  did  not  answer 
him. 

"  Tell  me  about  yourself.  What  you  do, 
what  you  care  about  .  .  .  your  life." 

He  told  her  a  little  about  his  home,  his  father, 
but  he  had  a  strange,  overwhelming  conviction 
that  she  already  knew.  He  felt,  also,  that  she 
regarded  these  things  that  he  told  her  as  pre- 
liminaries to  something  else  that  he  would 
presently  say.  He  paused. 

"  Yes  T  "  she  said. 


EEVELATION   OF  BURNING       161 

"  I  am  tiring  you.  I  have  talked  enough. 
It  is  time  for  me  to  be  back  in  College." 

She  did  not  contradict  him.  She  watched 
him  as  he  said  good-bye.  For  one  moment  he 
touched  her  chill,  unresponsive  hand,  for  an 
instant  their  eyes,  dark,  sombre,  met.  The 
thought  flew  to  his  brain,  "  My  God,  how  lonely 
she  is  .  .  ."  and  then,  "  My  God,  how  lonely  I 
am."  Slowly  and  quietly  he  closed  the  door 
behind  him. 


That  night  the  Shadow  was  nearer,  more 
insistent ;  the  closer  it  came  the  more  com- 
pletely was  the  real  world  obscured.  This 
obscurity  was  now  shutting  off  from  him  every- 
thing ;  it  was  exactly  as  though  his  whole  body 
had  been  struck  numb  so  that  he  might  touch, 
might  hold,  but  could  feel  nothing.  Again  it 
was  as  though  he  were  confined  in  a  damp, 
underground  cell  and  the  world  above  his  head 
was  crying  out  with  life  and  joy.  In  his  hand 
was  the  key  of  the  door  ;  he  had  only  to  use  it. 

Submission — to  be  taken  into  those  arms, 
to  be  told  gently  what  he  must  do,  and  then — 
Obedience — perhaps  public  confession,  perhaps 


162  THE  PEELUDE  TO  AD  VENTURE 

death,  struggling,  ignominious  death  ...  at 
least,  never  again  Margaret  Craven,  never 
again  her  companionship,  her  understanding, 
never  again  to  help  her  and  to  feel  that  warm 
sure  clasp  of  her  hand.  What  would  she  say, 
what  would  she  do  if  she  were  told  t  That 
remained  for  him  now  the  one  abiding  question. 
But  he  could  not  doubt  what  she  would  do.  He 
saw  the  warmth  fading  from  her  eyes,  the  hard 
stern  lines  settling  about  the  mouth,  the  cold 
stiffening  of  her  whole  body.  No,  she  must 
never  know,  and  if  Eupert  discovered  the  truth, 
he,  Olva,  must  force  him,  for  his  sister's  sake, 
to  keep  silence.  But  if  Eupert  knew  he  would 
tell  his  sister,  and  she  would  believe  him.  No 
use  denials  then. 

And  on  the  side  of  it  all  was  the  Shadow, 
with  him  now,  with  him  in  the  room. 

"  All  things  betray  Thee  Who  betrayest  Me." 
The  line  from  some  poem  came  to  him.  It  was 
true,  true.  His  life  that  had  been  the  life  of  a 
man  was  now  the  life  of  a  Liar — Liar  to  his 
friends,  Liar  to  Margaret,  Liar  to  all  the  world — 
so  his  shuddering  soul  cowered  there,  naked, 
creeping  into  the  uttermost  corner  to  escape 
the  Presence. 


EEVELATION  OF  BUKNTffG        163 

If  only  for  an  hour  he  might  be  again  himself — 
might  shout  aloud  the  truth,  boast  of  it,  triumph 
in  it,  be  naked  in  the  glory  of  it.  Day  by  day 
the  pressure  had  been  increased,  day  by  day 
his  loneliness  had  grown,  day  by  day  the  pur- 
suit had  drawn  closer. 

And  now  he  hardly  recognized  the  real  from 
the  false.  He  paced  his  room  frantically.  He 
felt  that  on  the  other  side  of  the  bedroom  door 
there  was  terror.  He  had  turned  on  all  his 
lights  ;  a  furious  fire  was  blazing  in  the  grate ; 
beyond  the  windows  cold  stars  and  an  icy  moon, 
but  in  here  stifling  heat. 

When  Bunning  (the  clocks  were  striking  eleven) 
came  blinking  in  upon  him  he  was  muttering — 
"  Let  me  go,  let  me  go.  I  killed  him,  I  tell  you. 
I'm  glad  I  killed  him.  ...  Oh  !  Let  me  alone  ! 
For  pity's  sake  let  me  alone !  I  can't  confess  ! 
Don't  you  see  that  I  can't  confess  ?  There's 
Margaret.  I  must  keep  her — afterwards  when 
she  knows  me  better  I'll  tell  her." 

As  he  faced  Bunning's  staring  glasses,  the 
thought  came  to  him,  "  Am  I  going  mad  f — 
Has  it  been  too  much  for  me  ? — Mad  t  " 

He  stopped,  wheeled  round,  caught  the  table 
with  both  hands,  and  leaned  oyer  to  Bunning, 


164  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

who  stood,  his  month  open,  his  cap  and  gown 
still  on. 

Olva  very  gravely  said  ;  "  Come  in,  Bunning. 
Shnt  the  door.  « Sport'  it.  That's  right. 
Take  off  your  gown  and  sit  down." 

The  man,  still  staring,  white  and  frightened, 
sat  down. 

Olva  spoke  slowly  and  very  distinctly : 
"  I'm  glad  you've  come.  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
...  I  killed  Carfax,  you  know."  As  he  said  the 
words  he  began  slowly  to  come  back  to  himself 
from  the  Other  World  to  this  one.  How  often, 
sleeping,  waking,  had  he  said  those  words  !  How 
often,  aloud,  in  his  room,  with  his  door  locked, 
had  he  almost  shouted  them  ! 

He  was  not  now  altogether  sure  whether 
Bunning  were  really  there  or  no.  His  spectacles 
were  there,  his  boots  were  there,  but  was  Bunning 
there  t  If  he  were  not  there.  .  .  . 

But  he  was  there.  Olva's  brain  slowly 
cleared  and,  for  the  first  time  for  many  weeks,  he 
was  entirely  himself.  It  was  the  first  moment 
of  peace  that  he  had  known  since  that  hour  in 
St.  Martin's  Chapel. 

He  was  quiet,  collected,  perfectly  calm. 
He  went  over  to  the  window,  opened  it,  and 


BEVELATION  OP  BUNNING       165 

rejoiced  in  the  breeze.  The  room  seemed 
suddenly  empty.  Five  minutes  ago  it  had  been 
crowded,  breathless.  There  was  now  only 
Bunning. 

"  It  was  so  awfully  hot  with  that  enormous 
fire,"  he  said. 

Bunning's  condition  was  peculiar.  He  sat, 
his  large  fat  face  white  and  streaky,  beads  of 
perspiration  on  his  forehead,  his  hands  gripping 
the  sides  of  the  armchair.  His  boots  stuck 
up  in  the  most  absurd  manner,  like  interroga- 
tion marks.  He  watched  Olva's  face  fearfully. 
At  last  he  gasped — 

"  I  say,  Dune,  you're  ill.  You  are  really — 
you're  overdone.  You  ought  to  see  some  one, 
you  know.  You  ought  really,  you  ought  to  go 
to  bed."  His  words  came  in  jerks. 

Olva  crossed  the  room  and  stood  looking  down 
upon  him. 

"  No,  Bunning,  I'm  perfectly  well.  .  .  . 
There's  nothing  the  matter  with  me.  My  nerves 
have  been  a  bit  tried  lately  by  this  business, 
keeping  it  all  alone,  and  it's  a  great  relief  to 
me  to  have  told  you." 

The  fact  forced  itself  upon  Bunning's  brain. 
At  last  in  a  husky  whisper :  "  You  .  .  .  killed 


166   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

.  .  .  Carfax  T  "  And  then  the  favourite  ex- 
pression of  such  weak  souls  as  he :  "  Oh  !  my 
God!  Oh!  my  God!" 

"  Now  look  here,  don't  get  hysterical  about  it. 
You've  got  to  take  it  quietly  as  I  do.  You  said 
the  other  day  you'd  do  anything  for  me.  .  .  . 
Well,  now  you've  got  a  chance  of  proving  your 
devotion." 

"  My  God  !  My  God  !  "  The  boots  feebly 
tapped  the  floor. 

"  I  had  to  tell  somebody.  It  was  getting  on 
my  nerves.  I  suppose  it  gives  you  a  kind  of 
horror  of  me.  Don't  mind  saying  so  if  it  does." 

Banning,  taking  out  a  grimy  handkerchief, 
wiped  his  forehead.  He  shook  his  head  without 
speaking. 

Olva  sat  down  in  the  chair  opposite  him  and 
lit  his  pipe. 

"  I  want  to  tell  somebody  all  about  it.  You 
weren't  really,  I  suppose,  the  best  person  to  tell. 
You're  a  hysterical  sort  of  fellow  and  you're 
easily  frightened,  but  you  happened  to  come  in 
just  when  I  was  rather  worked  up  about  it.  At 
any  rate  you've  got  to  face  it  now  and  you  must 
pull  yourself  together  as  well  as  you  can.  .  *  . 
Move  away  from  the  fire,  if  you're  hot." 


BEVELATION   OP   BURNING        167 

Banning  shook  his  head. 

Olva  continued  :  "  I'm  going  to  try  to  put 
it  quite  plainly  to  you,  the  Carfax  part  of  it  I 
mean.  There  are  other  things  that  have  hap- 
pened since  that  I  needn't  bother  you  with,  but 
I'd  like  you  to  understand  why  I  did  it." 

"  Oh  !  my  God  ! "  said  Bunning.  He  was  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot  and  his  fat  hands  rattled 
on  the  woodwork  of  the  chair  and  his  feet  rattled 
on  the  floor. 

"  I  met  Carfax  first  at  my  private  school — a 
little,  fat  dirty  boy  he  was  then,  and  fat  and  dirty 
he's  been  ever  since.  I  hated  him,  but  I  was 
always  pleasant  to  him.  He  wasn't  worth  being 
angry  with.  He  always  did  rotten  things.  He 
knew  more  filthy  things  than  the  other  boys,  and 
he  was  a  bully — a  beastly  bully.  I  think  he 
knew  that  I  hated  him,  but  we  were  on  perfectly 
good  terms.  I  think  he  was  always  a  little  afraid 
of  me,  but  it's  curious  to  remember  that  we 
never  had  a  quarrel  of  any  kind,  until  the  day 
when  I  killed  him." 

Olva  paused  and  asked  Bunning  to  have  a 
drink.  Bunning,  gazing  at  him  with  desperate 
eyes,  shook  his  head. 

"  Then   we   went   on   to   Harrow   together. 


168   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

i 

It's  odd  how  Pate  has  apparently  been  deter- 
mined to  hammer  out  our  paths  side  by  side. 
Carfax  grew  more  and  more  beastly.  He  always 
did  the  filthiest  things  and  yet  out  of  it  all  seemed 
to  the  world  at  large  a  perfectly  decent  fellow. 
He  was  clever  in  that  way.  I  am  not  trying  to 
defend  myself.  I'm  making  it  perfectly  straight- 
forward and  just  as  it  really  was.  He  knew 
that  I  knew  him  better  than  anybody,  and  as 
we  went  on  at  Harrow  I  think  that  his  fear 
of  me  grew.  I  didn't  hate  him  so  much  as  being 
Carfax,  but  rather  as  standing  for  all  sorts  of 
rotten  things.  It  didn't  matter  to  me  in  the 
least  whether  he  was  a  beast  or  not,  I'm  a  beast 
myself,  but  it  did  matter  that  he  should  smile 
about  it  and  have  damp  hands.  When  I  touched 
his  hand  I  always  wanted  to  hit  him. 

"  I've  got  a  very  sudden  temper,  all  my 
family  are  like  that — calm  most  of  the  time  and 
then  absolutely  wild.  I  hated  him  more  up 
here  at  College  than  I'd  hated  him  at  school.  He 
developed  and  still  his  reputation  was  just  the 
same,  decent  fellows  like  Craven  followed  him, 
excused  him  ;  he  had  that  cheery  manner.  .  .  . 
Hating  him  became  a  habit  with  me.  I  hated 
everything  that  he  did — his  rolling  walk  down 


EEVELATION   OF  BOTOTSTG       169 

the  Court,  his  red  colour,  his  football  .  .  .  and 
then  he  mined  that  fellow  Thompson.  That 
was  a  poor  game,  but  no  one  seemed  to  think 
anything  of  it  ...  and  indeed  he  and  I  seemed 
to  be  very  good  friends.  He  used  to  sneer  at 
me  behind  my  back,  I  know,  but  I  didn't  mind 
that.  Any  one's  at  liberty  to  sneer  if  they  like. 
But  he  was  really  afraid  of  me  .  .  .  always. 

"  Then  at  last  there  was  this  girl  that  he  set 
about  destroying.  He  seduced  her,  promised 
her  marriage.  I  knew  all  about  it,  because  she 
used  to  be  rather  a  friend  of  mine.  I  warned 
her,  but  she  was  absolutely  infatuated — wouldn't 
hear  of  anything  that  I  had  to  say,  thought  it 
all  jealousy.  She  wasn't  the  kind  of  girl  who 
could  stand  disgrace.  .  .  .  She  came  to  him  one 
day  and  told  him  that  she  was  going  to  have  a 
baby.  He  laughed  at  her  in  the  regular  old  con- 
ventional way  .  .  .  and  that  very  afternoon, 
after  he  had  seen  her,  he  met  me — there  in 
Sannet  Wood. 

"  He  began  to  boast  about  it,  told  me  jokingly 
about  the  way  that  he'd  *  shut  her  mouth,'  as  he 
called  it  ...  laughed  ...  I  hit  him.  I  meant 
to  hit  him  hard,  I  hated  him  so,  but  I  didn't 
mean  to  kill  him.  All  the  accumulated  years 


170   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUKE 

were  in  that  blow,  I  suppose ;  at  any  rate,  I 
caught  him  on  the  chin  and  it  broke  his  neck 
and  he  dropped  .  .  .  that's  all." 

Olva  paused,  finished  his  drink,  and  ended 
with — 

"  There  it  is — it's  simple  enough.  I'm  not 
in  the  least  sorry  I  killed  him.  I've  no  regrets  ; 
he  was  better  out  of  the  world  than  in  it,  and 
I've  probably  saved  a  number  of  people  from  a 
great  deal  of  misery.  I  thought  at  first  that  I 
should  be  caught,  but  they  aren't  very  sharp 
round  here  and  there  was  really  nothing  to 
connect  me  with  it.  But  there  were  other 
things — there's  more  in  killing  a  man  than  the 
mere  killing.  I  haven't  been  able  to  stand  the 
loneliness — so  I  told  you." 

The  last  words  brought  him  back  to  Bunning, 
a  person  whom  he  had  almost  forgotten.  A 
sudden  pity  for  the  man's  distress  made  his  voice 
tender.  "  I  say,  Bunning,  I  oughtn't  to  have 
told  you.  It's  been  too  much  for  you.  But  if 
you  knew  the  relief  that  it  is  to  me.  .  .  .  Though, 
mind  you,  if  it's  on  your  conscience,  if  it  burdens 
you,  you  must  '  out '  with  it.  Don't  have  any 
scruples  about  me.  But  it  needn't  burden  you. 
"Sou  hadn't  anything  to  do  with  it.  You  were 


EEVELATION   OF  BUNKING       171 

here  and  I  told  yon.  That's  all.  I've  shown 
yon  that  I  want  you  as  a  friend." 

For  answer  the  creature  burst  suddenly  into 
tears,  hiding  his  face  in  his  sleeve,  as  small  boys 
hide  their  faces,  and  choking  out  desperately— 

"  Oh  1  my  God  !    Oh  !  my  God  1 " 


CHAPTER    X 

CBAVEN 

1 

evening  Olva  was  elected  President  of 
4-  the  Wolves.  It  was  a  ceremony  conducted 
with  closed  doors  and  much  drinking  of  wine, 
by  a  committee  of  four  and  the  last  reigning 
President  who  had  the  casting  vote.  The 
College  waited  in  suspense  and  at  eleven  o'clock 
it  was  understood  that  Dune  had  been  elected. 

According  to  custom,  on  the  day  following  in 
"  Hall  "  Olva  would  be  cheered  by  the  assembled 
undergraduates  whilst  the  gods  on  the  dais 
smiled  gently  and  murmured  that  "  boys  will  be 
boys." 

Meanwhile  the  question  that  agitated  the  Sau- 
line  world  was  the  way  that  Cardillac  would  take 
it.  "  If  it  had  been  any  one  else  but  Dune  .  .  ." 
but  it  couldn't  have  been  any  one  else.  There 
was  no  other  possible  rival,  and  "  Cards,"  like  the 
rest  of  the  world,  bowed  to  Dune's  charm.  The 
Dublin  match,  to  be  played  now  in  a  fortnight's 

178 


CBAVEN  173 

time  would  settle  the  football  question.  It  was 
generally  expected  that  they  would  try  Dune 
in  that  match  and  judge  him  finally  then  on  his 
play.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  betting  on  the 
matter,  and  those  who  remembered  his  earlier 
games  said  that  nothing  could  ever  make  Dune 
a  reliable  player  and  that  it  was  a  reliable  player 
that  was  wanted. 

When  Olva  came  into  "  Hall "  that  evening 
he  was  conscious  of  two  pairs  of  eyes,  Craven's 
and  Bunning's.  On  either  side  of  the  high 
vaulted  hall  the  tables  were  ranged,  and  men, 
shouting,  waving  their  glasses,  lined  the  benches. 
Olva's  place  was  at  the  end  farthest  from  the 
door  and  nearest  the  High  Table,  and  he  had 
therefore  the  whole  room  to  cross.  He  was 
smiling  a  little,  a  faint  colour  in  his  cheeks.  At 
his  own  end  of  the  table  Craven  was  standing, 
silent,  with  his  eyes  gravely  fixed  upon  Olva's 
face.  Half  way  down  the  hall  there  was  Bun- 
ning,  and  Olva  could  see,  as  he  passed  up  the 
room,  that  the  man  was  trembling  and  was 
pressing  his  hands  down  upon  the  table  to  hold 
his  body  still. 

When  Olva  had  sat  down  and  the  cheering 
had  passed  again  into  the  cheerful  hum  that  was 


174  THE  PBELTJDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

customary,  the  first  voice  that  greeted  him  was 
Cardillac's. 

"  Congratulations,  old  man.    I'm  delighted." 

There  was  no  question  of  Cardillac's  sincerity. 
Craven  was  sitting  four  places  lower  down ;  he 
had  turned  the  other  way  and  was  talking 
eagerly  to  some  man  on  his  farther  side — but 
the  eyes  that  had  met  Olva's  two  minutes  before 
had  been  hostile. 

Cardillac  went  on  :  "  Come  in  to  coffee  after- 
wards, Dune  ;  several  men  are  coming  in." 

Olva  thanked  him  and  said  that  he  would. 
The  world  was  waiting  to  see  how  "  Cards  " 
would  take  it,  and,  beyond  question,  "  Cards  " 
was  taking  it  very  well.  Indeed  an  observer 
might  have  noticed  that  "  Cards "  was  too 
absorbed  by  the  way  that  Dune  was  "  taking  it  " 
to  "  take  it  "  himself  consciously  at  all.  Olva's 
aloof  surveying  of  the  world  about  him,  as  a  man 
on  a  hill  surveys  the  town  in  the  valley,  made  of 
"  Cards  "  last  year  and  a  half  a  gaudy  and 
noisy  thing.  He  had  thought  that  his  attitude 
had  been  nicely  adjusted,  but  now  he  saw  that 
there  were  still  heights  to  be  reached — perhaps 
in  this  welcome  that  he  was  giving  to  Dune's 
success  he  might  attain  his  position.  .  .  .  Not, 


CBAVEN  176 

in  any  way,  a  bad  fellow,  this  Cardillac — but 
obsessed  by  a  self-conscious  conviction  that  the 
world  was  looking  at  him;  the  world  never 
looks  for  more  than  an  instant  at  self-conscious- 
ness, but  it  dearly  loves  self-forgetfulness,  for 
that  implies  a  compliment  to  itself. 

Afterwards,  in  Cardillac's  handsome  and  over- 
careful  rooms,  there  was  an  attempt  at  depth. 
The  set — Lawrence,  Galleon,  Craven  and  five 
or  six  more — never  thought  about  Life  unless 
drink  drove  them  to  do  so,  and  drink  drove  them 
to-night.  A  long,  thin  man,  Williamson  by 
name,  with  a  half-Blue  for  racquets  and  a 
pensive  manner,  had  a  favourite  formula  on  these 
occasions :  "  But  think  of  a  rabbit  now  ..." 
only  conveying  by  the  remark  that  here  was  a 
proof  of  God's  supreme,  astounding  carelessness. 
"  You  shoot  it,  you  know,  without  turning  a 
hair  (no  joke,  you  rotter),  and  it  breeds  millions 
a  week  .  .  .  and — does  it  think  about  it,  that's 
what  I  want  to  know  ?  Where's  its  soul  ?  " 
"  Hasn't  got  a  soul.  .  .  ." 
"  Well,  what  is  the  soul,  anyway  f  " 
There  you  are — the  thing's  properly  started, 
and  the  more  the  set  drinks  the  vaguer  it  gets 
until  finally  it  goes  happily  to  bed  and  wakes 


176  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

with  a  headache  and  a  healthy  opinion  that 
"  Beligion  and  that  sort  of  stuff  is  rot  "  in  the 
morning.  That  is  precisely  as  far  as  intellect 
ever  ventured  in  Saul's.  There  may  have  been 
quaint  obscure  fellows  who  sported  their  oaks 
every  night  and  talked  cleverly  on  ginger  beer, 
but  they  were  not  admitted  as  part  of  the 
scheme  of  things.  .  .  .  Saulines,  to  quote  Law- 
rence, "  are  not  clever." 

They  were  not  especially  clever  to-night, 
thought  Olva,  as  he  sat  in  the  shadow  away  from 
the  light  of  the  fire  and  watched  them  sitting 
back  in  enormous  armchairs,  with  their  legs 
stretched  out,  blowing  wreaths  of  smoke  into  the 
air,  drinking  whiskies  and  sodas  .  .  .  no,  not 
clever. 

Craven,  the  shadows  blacker  than  ever  under 
his  eyes,  was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room 
from  Olva.  He  sat  with  his  head  down  and  was 
silent. 

"  Think  of  a  rabbit  now,"  said  Williamson. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Galleon,  who  was  not  gifted, 
"  that  they're  happy  enough." 

"  Yes,  but  what  do  they  make  of  it  all  T  " 

At  this  moment  Craven  suddenly  burst  in 
with  "  Where's  Carfax  f  " 


CBAVEN  177 

This  question  was  felt  by  every  one  to  be  tact- 
less. Elaborately,  with  great  care  and  some 
considerable  effort,  Carfax  had  been  forgotten — 
forgotten,  it  seemed,  by  every  one  save  Craven. 
He  had  been  forgotten  because  his  death  did  not 
belong  to  the  Cambridge  order  of  things,  because 
it  raised  unpleasant  ideas,  and  made  one  morbid 
and  neurotic.  It  had,  in  fact,  nothing  in  common 
with  cold  baths,  marmalade,  rugby  football 
and  musical  comedy. 

On  the  present  occasion  the  remark  was  es- 
pecially unpleasant  because  Craven  had  made  it 
in  so  odd  a  manner.  During  the  last  few  weeks 
it  had  been  very  generally  noticed  that  Craven 
had  not  been  himself — so  pleasant  and  healthy 
a  fellow  he  had  always  been,  but  now  this  Carfax 
business  was  too  much  for  him.  "  Look  out 
for  young  Craven  "  had  been  the  general  warn- 
ing, implied  if  not  expressed.  Persons  who 
threatened  to  be  unusual  were  always  marked 
down  in  Cambridge. 

And  now  Craven  had  been  unusual — "  Where's 
Carfax  ?  "  .  .  .  What  a  dreadful  thing  to  say 
and  how  tactless !  The  note,  moreover,  in 
Craven's  voice  sounded  a  danger.  There  was 
something  in  the  air  as  though  the  fellow  might, 


178  THE  PKELUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

at  any  moment,  burst  into  tears,  fire  a  pistol 
into  the  air,  or  jump  out  of  the  window !  So 
unpleasant,  and  Carfax  was  much  more  real, 
even  now,  than  an  abstract  rabbit. 

"  Dear  boy,"  said  Cardillac,  easily,  "  Carfax 
is  dead.  We  all  miss  him — it  was  a  beastly, 
horrible  affair,  but  there's  no  point  in  dwelling 
on  things  ;  one  only  gets  morbid,  and  morbidity 
isn't  what  we're  here  for." 

"  It's  all  very  well,"  Craven  was  angrily 
muttering,  "  but  it's  scandalous  the  way  you 
forget  a  man.  Here  he  was,  amongst  the  whole 
lot  of  you,  only  a  month  or  so  ago  and  he  was  a 
friend  of  every  one's.  And  then  some  brute 
kills  him — he's  done  for — and  you  don't  care  a 
damn  .  .  .  it's  beastly — it  makes  one  sick." 

"  Where  do  you  think  he  is,  Craven  ?  "  Olva 
asked  quietly  from  his  shadowy  corner. 

Craven  flung  up  his  head.  "  Perhaps  you 
can  tell  us,"  he  cried.  There  was  such  hostility 
in  his  voice  that  the  whole  room  was  startled. 
Poor  Craven  !  He  really  was  very  unwell.  The 
sight  of  his  tired  eyes  and  white  cheeks,  the 
shadow  of  his  hand  quivering  on  his  knee — here 
were  signs  that  all  was  not  as  it  should  be. 
Gone,  now,  at  any  rate,  any  possibility  of  a 


CEAVEN  179 

comfortable  evening.  Craven  said  no  more 
but  still  sat  there  with  his  head  hanging,  his  only 
movement  the  shaking  of  his  hand. 

Cardillac  tried  to  bring  ease  back  again,  Wil- 
liamson once  more  started  his  rabbits,  but  now 
there  was  danger  in  that  direction.  Conversa- 
tion fell,  heavily,  helplessly,  to  the  ground. 
Some  man  got  up  to  go  and  some  one  else  followed 
him.  It  was  the  wrong  moment  for  departure 
for  they  had  drunk  enough  to  make  it  desirable 
to  drink  more,  but  to  escape  from  that  white 
face  of  Craven's  was  the  thing — out  into  the 
air. 

At  last  Craven  himself  got  up.  "  I  must 
be  off,"  he  said  heavily. 

"  So  must  I,"  Olva  said,  coining  forward  from 
his  corner.  Craven  flung  him  a  frightened  glance 
and  then  passed  stumbling  out  of  the  door. 

Olva  caught  him  up  at  the  bottom  of  the 
dark  stairs.  He  put  a  hand  on  Craven's  trem- 
bling arm  and  held  him  there. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Craven.  Come  up 
to  my  room." 

Craven  tried  to  wrench  his  arm  away.  "  No, 
I'm  tired.  I  want  to  go  to  bed." 

* '  You  haven't  been  near  me  for  weeks.    Why  t " 


180   THE  PKELTJDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

"  Oh,  nothing — let  me  go.  I'll  come  up  an- 
other time." 

"  No,  I  must  talk  to  you — now.  Come." 
Olva's  voice  was  stern — his  face  white  and  hard. 

"  No— I  won't." 

"  You  must.  I  won't  keep  you  long.  I  have 
something  to  tell  you." 

Craven  suddenly  ceased  to  struggle.  He  gazed 
straight  into  Olva's  eyes,  and  the  look  that  he 
gave  him  was  the  strangest  thing — something 
of  terror,  something  of  anger,  a  great  wonder, 
and  even — strangest  of  all ! — a  struggling  affec- 
tion. 

"  I'll  come,"  he  said. 

In  Olva's  room  he  stood,  a  disturbed  figure 
facing  the  imperturbability  of  the  other  man 
with  restless  eyes  and  hands  that  moved  up  and 
down  against  his  coat.  Olva  commanded  the 
situation,  with  stern  eyes  he  seemed  to  be  the 
accuser.  .  .  . 

"  Sit  down — fill  a  pipe." 

"  No,  I  won't  sit — what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  Please  sit.  It's  so  much  easier  for  us  both  to 
talk.  I  can't  say  the  things  that  I  want  to 
when  you're  standing  over  me.  Please  sit  down. " 

Craven  sat  down. 


CBAVEN  181 

Olva  faced  him.  "  Now  look  here,  Craven, 
a  little  time  ago  you  came  and  wished  that  we 
should  see  a  good  deal  of  one  another.  You 
came  in  here  often  and  you  took  me  to  see  your 
people.  You  were  charming  ...  I  was  de- 
lighted to  be  with  you." 

Olva  paused — Craven  said  nothing. 

"  Then  suddenly,  for  no  reason  that  I  can 
understand,  this  changed.  Do  you  remember 
that  afternoon  when  you  had  tea  with  me  here 
and  I  went  to  sleep  f  It  was  after  that — you 
were  never  the  same  after  that.  And  it  has 
been  growing  worse.  Now  you  avoid  me  alto- 
gether— you  don't  speak  to  me  if  you  can  help 
it.  I'm  not  a  man  of  many  friends  and  I  don't 
wish  to  lose  one  without  knowing  first  what  it 
is  that  I  have  done.  Will  you  tell  me  what 
it  is?" 

Craven  made  no  answer.  His  eyes  passed 
restlessly  up  and  down  the  room  as  though 
searching  for  some  way  of  escape.  He  made 
little  choking  noises  in  his  throat.  When 
Olva  had  had  no  answer  to  his  question,  he  went 
gravely  on — 

"  But  it  isn't  only  your  attitude  to  me  that 
matters,  although  I  do  want  you  to  explain  that. 


182    THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

But  I  want  you  also  to  tell  me  what  the  damage 
is.  You're  most  awfully  unwell.  You're  an 
utterly  different  man — changed  entirely  during 
the  last  week  or  two,  and  we've  all  noticed  it. 
But  it  doesn't  only  worry  us  here ;  it  worries 
your  mother  and  sister  too.  You've  no  right 
to  keep  it  to  yourself." 

"  There's  nothing  the  matter." 

"  Of  course  there  is.  A  man  doesn't  alter 
in  a  day  for  nothing,  and  I  date  it  all  from  that  \ 
evening  when  you  had  tea  with  me,  and  I  can't 
help  feeling  that  it's  something  that  I  can  clear 
up.  If  it  is  anything  that  I  can  do,  if  I  can  clear 
your  bother  up  in  any  way,  you  have  only  to  tell 
me.  And,"  he  added  slowly,  "  I  think  at  least 
that  you  owe  me  an  explanation  of  your  own 
personal  avoidance  of  me.  No  man  has  any  \ 
/  right  to  drop  a  friend  without  giving  his  reasons. 
You  know  that,  Craven." 

Craven  suddenly  raised  his  weary  eyes.  "  I 
never  was  a  friend  of  yours.  We  were  acquaint- 
ances— that's  all." 

"  You  made  me  a  friend  of  your  mother  and 
Bister.  I  demand  an  explanation,  Craven." 

"  There  is  no  explanation.  I'm  not  well — 
out  of  condition." 


CBAVEN  183 

"  Why  !  " 

"  Why  is  a  fellow  ever  out  of  condition  f 
I've  been  working  too  hard,  I  suppose.  .  .  . 
But  you  said  you'd  got  something  to  tell  me. 
What  have  you  got  to  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Tell  me  first  what  is  troubling  you." 

"  No." 

"  You  refuse  ?  " 

"  Absolutely." 

"  Then  I  have  nothing  to  tell  you." 

"  Then  you  brought  me  in  here  on  a  lie.  I 
should  never  have  come  if " 

"  Yes  ?  " 

"  If  I  hadn't  thought  you  had  something  to 
tell  me." 

"  What  should  I  have  to  tell  you  t  " 

"  I  don't  know  .  .  .  nothing." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  with  a  sudden 
surprising  force,  Craven  almost  appealed — 

"  Dune,  you  can  help  me.  You  can  make  a 
great  difference.  I  am  ill ;  it's  quite  true.  I'm 
not  myself  a  bit  and  I'm  tortured  by  imagina- 
tions— awful  things.  I  suppose  Carfax  has  got 
on  my  nerves  and  I've  had  absurd  fancies.  You 
can  help  me  if  you'll  just  answer  me  one  question 
— only  one.  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  else. 


184   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

I'll  never  ask  you  anything  else — only  this. 
Where  were  you  on  the  afternoon  that  Carfax 
was  murdered  ?  " 

He  brought  it  out  at  last,  his  hands  gripping 
the  sides  of  his  chair,  all  the  agonized  uncer- 
tainty of  the  last  few  weeks  in  his  voice.  Olva 
faced  him,  standing  above  him,  and  looking 
down  upon  him. 

"  My  dear  Craven — what  an  odd  question — 
why  do  you  want  to  know  ?  " 

"  Well,  finding  your  match-box  like  that — 
there  in  Sannet  Wood — and  I  know  you  must 
have  lost  it  just  about  then  because  I  remember 
your  looking  for  it  here.  I  thought  that  perhaps 
you  might  have  seen  somebody,  had  some  kind 
of  suspicion.  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  I  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  there  that 
very  afternoon.  I  walked  through  the  wood 
with  Bunker — rather  late.  I  met  no  one  during 
the  whole  of  the  time." 

"  No  one  ?  " 

"  No  one." 

**  You  have  no  suspicion  T  " 

"  No  suspicion." 

The  boy  relapsed  from  his  eagerness  into  his 
heavy  dreary  indifference.  His  lips  were  work- 


CBAVEN  185 

ing.  Olva  seemed  to  catch  the  words — "  Why 
should  it  be  I  !  Why  should  it  be  I  T  "  Olva 
came  over  to  him  and  placed  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder. 

"  Look  here,  old  man,  I  don't  know  what's 
the  matter  with  you,  but  it's  plain  enough  that 
you've  got  this  Carfax  business  on  your  nerves — 
drop  it.  It  does  no  good — it's  the  worst  thing 
in  the  world  to  brood  about.  Carfax  is  dead — 
if  I  could  help  you  to  find  his  murderer  I  would 
—but  I  can't." 

Craven's  whole  body  was  trembling  under 
Olva's  hand.  Olva  moved  back  to  his  chair. 

"  Craven,  listen  to  me.  You  must  listen  to 
me."  Then,  speaking  very  slowly  he  brought 
out — "  I  Tiave  a  right  to  speak  to  you — a  great 
right.  I  wish  to  marry  your  sister." 

Craven  started  up  from  his  chair. 

"  No,  no,"  he  cried.  "  You !  Never,  so 
long  as  I  can  prevent  it." 

"  You  have  no  right  to  say  that,"  Olva  an- 
swered him  sternly,  "  until  you  have  given  me 
your  reasons.  I  don't  know  that  she  cares  a 
pin  about  me — I  don't  suppose  that  she  does. 
But  she  will.  I'm  going  to  do  my  very  best  to 
marry  her." 


186  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

Craven  broke  away  to  the  middle  of  the  room. 
His  body  was  shaking  with  passion  and  he  flung 
out  his  hand  as  though  to  ward  off  Olva  from 
him. 

"  You  to  marry  my  sister !  My  God,  I  will 
prevent  it — I  will  tell  her "  He  caught  him- 
self up  suddenly. 

"  What  will  you  tell  her  ?  " 

Then  Craven  collapsed.  He  stood  there, 
rocking  on  his  feet,  his  hands  covering  his 
face. 

"  It's  all  too  awful,"  he  moaned.  "  It's  all 
too  awful." 

For  a  wonderful  moment  Olva  felt  that  he 
was  about  to  tell  Craven  everything.  A  flood 
of  words  rose  to  his  lips — he  seemed,  for  an  in- 
stant, to  be  rising  with  a  great  joyous  freedom, 
as  did  Christian  when  he  had  dropped  his  burden, 
to  a  new  honesty,  a  high  deliverance. 

Then  he  remembered  Margaret  Craven. 

"  You  take  my  advice,  Craven,  and  get  your 
nerves  straight.  They're  in  a  shocking  condi- 
tion." 

Craven  went  to  the  door  and  turned. 

"  You  can  tell  me  nothing  !  " 

"  Nothing." 


CEAVEN  187 

"  I  will  never  rest  until  I  know  who  murdered 
Carfax." 

He  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  was 
gone. 


T 


CHAPTEE    XI 

FIFTH   OP  NOVEMBER 
1 

1HAT  attempt  to  make  Craven  speak  his 
mind  was  Olva's  last  plunge  into  the  open. 
He  saw  now,  with  a  clarity  that  was  like  the 
sudden  lifting  of  some  blind  before  a  lighted 
window,  that  he  had  been  beguiled,  betrayed. 
He  had  thought  that  his  confession  to  Bunning 
would  stay  the  pursuit.  He  saw  now  that  it 
was  the  Pursuer  Himself  who  had  instigated  it. 
With  that  confession  the  grey  shadow  had 
drawn  nearer,  had  made  one  degree  more  certain 
the  ultimate  capitulation. 

For  Bunning  was  surely  the  last  person  to  be 
told — with  every  hour  that  became  clearer. 
There  were  now  about  four  weeks  before  the  end 
of  term.  The  Dublin  match  was  to  be  on  the 
first  Tuesday  of  December,  two  days  before 
every  one  went  down,  and  between  the  two  dates 
— this  5th  of  November  and  that  2nd  of  Decem- 
ber— the  position  must  be  held.  .  .  . 

188 


FIFTH  OF  NOVEMBER  189 

The  terror  of  the  irresistible  impulse  now  never 
left  Olva.  He  had  told  Bunning  in  a  moment 
of  uncontrol — what  might  he  not  do  now  at 
any  time  ?  At  one  instant  to  be  absolutely 
silent  seemed  the  only  resource,  at  the  next  to 
rush  out  and  take  part  in  all  the  life  about  him. 
Were  he  silent  he  was  tortured  by  the  silence, 
if  he  flung  himself  amongst  his  fellow  men  every 
hour  threatened  self-betrayal. 

What,  moreover,  was  happening  in  the  house 
in  Rocket  Road  ?  Craven  was  only  waiting 
for  certainty  and  at  any  moment  some  chance 
might  give  him  what  he  needed.  What  did  Mrs. 
Craven  know  ? 

Margaret  .  .  .  Margaret  .  .  .  Margaret — 
Olva  took  the  thought  of  her  in  his  hand  and 
held  it  like  a  sword,  against  the  forces  that  were 
crowding  in  upon  him. 

The  afternoon  of  November  5  was  thick  with 
fog  so  that  the  shops  were  lighted  early  and 
every  room  was  dim  and  unreal,  and  a  sulphurous 
smell  weighted  the  air.  After  "  Hall "  Olva 
came  back  to  his  room  and  found  Bunning,  his 
white  face  peering  out  of  the  foggy  mist  like  a 
dull  moon  from  clouds,  waiting  for  him.  All  day 
there  had  hung  about  Olva  heavy  depression. 


190   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

It  had  seemed  so  ugly  and  sinister  a  world — the 
fog  had  been  crowded  with  faces  and  terror,  and 
the  dreadful  overpowering  impression  of  unreality 
that  had  been  increasing  with  every  day  now 
took  from  his  companions  all  life  and  made  of 
them  grinning  masks.  He  remembered  Mar- 
garet's cry,  "  It  is  like  walking  in  a  dream," 
and  echoed  it.  Surely  it  was  a  dream !  He 
would  wake  one  happy  morning  and  find  that 
he  had  invited  Craven  and  Carfax  to  breakfast, 
and  he  would  hear  them,  whilst  he  dressed,  talk- 
ing together  in  the  outer  room,  and,  later,  he 
would  pass  Bunning  in  the  Court  without  know- 
ing him.  He  would  be  introduced  one  day  to 
Margaret  Craven  and  find  the  house  in  which 
she  lived  a  charming  comfortable  place,  full  of 
light  and  air,  with  a  croquet  lawn  at  the  back 
of  it,  and  Mrs.  'Craven,  a  nice  ordinary  middle- 
aged  woman,  stout  possibly  and  fond  of  gossip. 
And  instead  of  being  President  of  the  Wolves 
and  a  person  of  importance  in  the  College  he 
would  be  once  again  his  old  self,  knowing  nobody, 
scornful  of  the  whole  world  and  of  the  next  world 
as  well.  And  this  brought  him  up  with  a  terrible 
awakening.  No,  that  old  reality  could  never  be 
real  again,  for  that  old  reality  meant  a  world 


FIFTH   OF   NOVEMBEB  191 

without  God.  God  had  come  and  had  turned 
the  world  into  a  nightmare  ...  or  was  it  only 
his  rebellion  against  God  that  had  so  made  it  ? 
But  the  nightmare  was  there,  the  awful  uncer- 
tainty of  every  word,  of  every  step,  because 
with  the  slightest  movement  he  might  provoke 
the  shadow  to  new  action,  if  anything  so  grave, 
so  stern,  so  silent  as  that  Pursuit  could  be  termed 
action,  and  ...  it  was  odd  how  certainly  he 
knew  it  ...  so  kind.  Bunning's  face  brought 
him  to  the  sudden  necessity  of  treating  the  night- 
mare as  reality,  for  the  moment  at  any  rate.  The 
staring  spectacles  piteously  appealed  to  him — 
"  I  can't  stand  it — I  can't  stand  it." 
"  Hush  !  "  Olva  held  his  hand,  and  out  of  the 
fog,  below  in  the  Court,  a  voice  was  calling — 
"  Craven  !  Craven  !  Buck  up,  you  old  ass  !  " 
"  They're  going  to  light  bonfires  and  things," 
Bunning  quavered,  and  then,  with  a  hand  that 
had  always  before  seemed  soft  and  flabby  but 
that  was  now  hard  and  burning,  he  caught  Olva's 
wrist.  "  I  had  to  see  you — I've  been  three  days 
now — waiting — all  the  time  for  them  to  come  and 
arrest  you.  Oh  !  I've  imagined  everything — 
everything — and  the  fog  makes  it  worse.  .  .  . 
Oh  !  my  God  !  I  can't  stand  it." 


192  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

The  man  was  on  the  edge  of  hysteria.  His 
senseless  giggle  threatened  that  in  another 
instant  it  would  be  beyond  all  control.  There 
was  no  time  to  be  lost.  Olva  took  the  man 
by  the  shoulders,  held  him  firmly  and  looked 
straight  into  the  weak,  quivering  eyes  that  were 
behind  the  glasses  like  fish  in  a  tank. 

"  Look  here,  Bunning.  Pull  yourself  together. 
You  must — you  must.  Do  you  understand  ?  If 
you've  never  done  it  before  you  must  do  it  now. 
Eemember  that  you  wanted  to  help  me.  Well, 
now  you  can  do  it — but  remember  that  if  you  give 
way  so  that  people  notice  you  then  the  show's  up. 
They'll  be  asking  questions — they'll  watch  you 
— and  you'll  have  done  for  me.  Otherwise 
there's  no  risk  whatever — no  risk  whatever. 
Just  remember  that — it's  as  though  I'd  never 
done  anything ;  everything's  going  on  in  its 
usual  way  ;  life  will  always  be  just  the  same  .  .  . 
if  you'll  keep  hold  of  yourself — do  you  under- 
stand ?  Do  you  hear  me  ?  " 

Bunning's  quavering  voice  answered  him,  "  I'll 
try." 

"  Well,  look  here.  Think  of  it  quite  calmly, 
naturally.  You're  taking  it  like  a  story  that 
you'd  read  in  a  magazine  or  a  play  you'd  seen 


FIFTH   OF  NOVEMBEB  193 

at  a  theatre — melodrama  with  all  the  lights  on 
and  every  one  screaming.  Well,  it  can  be  like 
that  if  you  want  it.  Every  one  thinks  of  murder 
that  way  and  you  can  go  shrieking  to  the 
Dean  and  have  the  rope  round  my  neck  in  a 
minute.  But  I  want  you  to  think  of  it  as  the 
most  ordinary  thing  in  the  world.  Bemember 
no  one  knows  but  yourself,  and  they  won't  know 
either  if  you  behave  in  a  natural  sort  of  way." 
Then  suddenly  his  voice  sank  to  a  growl  and  he 
caught  the  man's  hands  in  his  and  held  the  whole 
quivering  body  in  his  control — "  Quiet ! "  he 
muttered,  "  Quiet !  " 

Bunning  had  begun  to  laugh — quite  helplessly, 
almost  noiselessly — only  his  fat  cheeks  were 
quivering  and  his  mouth  foolishly,  weakly  smil- 
ing :  his  eyes  seemed  to  be  disconnected  from 
his  body  and  to  be  protesting  against  it.  They 
looked  out  like  a  prisoner  from  behind  barred 
windows.  The  body  began  to  shake  from  head 
to  foot — ripples  of  noiseless  laughter  shook  his 
fat  limbs,  then  suddenly  he  began  .  .  .  peal  upon 
peal  .  .  .  the  tears  came  rolling  down,  the 
mouth  was  loosely  trembling,  and  still  only  the 
eyes,  in  a  kind  of  sad,  stupid  wonder,  protested. 

Olva  seized  his  throat — "  Stop  it,  you  damned 

o 


194  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

fool !  "  .  .  .  He  looked  straight  into  the  eyes 
— Bunning  ceased  as  suddenly  as  he  had  begun. 
The  horrible,  helpless  noise  fell  with  a  giggle  into 
silence ;  he  collapsed  into  a  chair  and  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Olva  gazed  at  the 
bending  figure,  summoning  all  his  will  power  to 
hold  the  shaking  thing  in  control.  He  waited. 
Then,  very  softly,  he  began  again.  "  Bunning, 
I  did  you  a  great  wrong  when  I  told  you — you're 
not  up  to  it." 

From  behind  the  hands  there  came  a  muffled 
voice — "  I  am  up  to  it." 

"  This  sort  of  thing  makes  it  impossible." 

"  It  shall  never  happen  again."  Bunning 
lifted  his  tear-stained  face.  "  It's  been  coming 
for  days.  I've  been  so  dreadfully  frightened. 
But  now — that  I've  been  with  you — it's  better, 

much  better.  If  only "  and  his  voice 

caught — "  if  only — no  one  suspects." 

Olva  gravely  answered,  "  No  one  suspects." 

"  If  I  thought  that  any  one — that  there  was 
any  chance — that  any  one  had  an  idea.  .  .  ." 

Craven's  voice  was  echoing  in  Olva's  ears. 
He  answered  again — 

"  No  one  has  the  slightest  suspicion." 


FIFTH  OF  NOVEMBEE  195 

Bunning  got  up  heavily  from  the  chair — "  I 
shall  be  better  now.  It's  been  so  awful  having 
a  secret.  I  never  could  keep  one.  I  always 
used  to  do  wrong  things  at  home  and  then  tell 
them  and  then  get  punished.  But  I  will  try. 

But  if  I  thought  that  they  guessed "  There 

was  a  rap  on  the  door  and  Bunning  gasped, 
stepped  back  against  the  wall,  his  face  white, 
his  knees  trembling. 

"  Don't  be  such  a  fool,"  Olva  said  fiercely. 
"  If  you're  like  that  every  time  any  one  knocks 
you  may  as  well  chuck  it  at  once.  Look  sen- 
sible, man.  Pull  yourself  together." 

Lawrence  entered,  bringing  fog  with  him 
from  the  stairs.  His  big,  thick-set  body  was 
so  reassuring,  so  healthy  in  its  sturdiness,  so 
strange  a  contrast  to  the  trembling  figure 
against  the  wall  that  Olva  felt  an  immense 
relief. 

"  You  know  Bunning,  Lawrence  t  " 

"  How  do  ?  " 

Lawrence  gripped  Bunning's  fingers,  nodded 
to  Bunning's  stumbling  words  and  smiled 
genially. 

Bunning  got  to  the  door,  blinked  upon  them 
both  from  behind  his  glasses  and  was  gone — 


196  THE  PEBLUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

muttering  something  about  "  work  .  .  .  letters 
to  write." 

"  Bum  feller,"  said  Lawrence,  and  dismissed 
him  with  a  chuckle.  "  Shouldn't  ever  have 
thought  him  your  style,  Dune  .  .  .  but  you're 
a  clever  feller  and  clever  fellers  always  see  more 
in  stupid  fellers  than  ordinary  fellers  do  ... 
come  out  and  see  the  rag." 

"  Bag  !    What  rag  !  " 

"  It's  November  5th." 

So  it  was.  In  the  air  already  perhaps  there 
were  those  mysterious  signs  and  portents  that 
heralded  riot — nothing,  as  yet,  for  the  casual 
observer  to  notice,  nothing  but  a  few  under- 
graduates arm-in-arm  pacing  the  sleepy  streets — 
a  policeman  here,  a  policeman  there.  Every 
now  and  again  clocks  strike  the  quarters,  and  in 
many  common-rooms  heads  are  nodding  over 
ancient  Port  and  argument  of  the  gentlest  kind 
is  being  tossed  to  and  fro.  But,  nevertheless, 
we  remember  other  Fifths  of  November.  There 
was  that  occasion  in  '98,  that  other  more  distant 
time  in '93.  .  .  .  There  was  that  furious  battle  in 
the  Market  Place  when  the  Town  Hall  was  nearly 
set  on  fire  and  a  policeman  had  his  arm  broken. 

These  are  historic  occasions ;    on  the  other 


FIFTH  OF  NOVEMBER  197 

hand  the  fateful  date  has  passed,  often  enough, 
without  the  merest  flinging  of  a  squib  or  friendly 
appropriation  of  the  genial  policeman's  helmet. 

No  one  can  say,  no  one  knows,  whether  there 
will  be  riot  to-night  or  no.  Most  of  the  young 
gentlemen  now  parading  the  K.P.  and  Petty  Cury 
would  undoubtedly  prefer  that  there  should  be  a 
riot.  For  one  thing  there  has  been  no  riot  during 
the  last  five  or  six  years — no  one  "  up  "  just  now 
has  had  any  experience  of  such  a  thing,  and 
it  would  be  beyond  question  delightful  to  taste 
the  excitement  of  it.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  is  all  the  difficulty  of  getting  under  way. 
One  cannot  possibly  enjoy  the  occasion  until  one 
has  reached  that  delightful  point  when  one 
has  lost  all  sense  of  risk,  when  recklessly  we 
pile  the  bonfire,  snap  our  fingers  in  the  nose  of 
poor  Mr.  Gregg  who  is  terrific  enough  when  he 
marches  solemnly  into  Chapel  but  is  nothing  at 
all  when  he  is  screaming  with  shrill  anger  amongst 
the  lights  and  fury  of  the  blazing  common. 

Will  this  wonderful  moment  when  discipline, 
respect  for  authority,  thoughts  of  home,  terrors 
of  being  sent  down,  all  these  bogies,  are  flung 
derisively  to  the  winds  arrive  to-night  t  It  has 
struck  nine  and  to  Olva  and  Lawrence  walking 


198  THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

solemnly  through  the  market-place,  it  all  seems 
quiet  enough. 

But  behold  how  the  gods  work  their  will ! 
It  so  happens  that  Giles  of  St.  Martin's  has  occa- 
sion, on  this  very  day,  to  celebrate  his  twenty- 
first  birthday.  It  has  been  done  as  a  twenty- 
first  birthday  should  be  done,  and  by  nine  o'clock 
the  company,  twenty  in  number,  have  decided 
that  "  it  was  the  ruddiest  of  ruddy  old  worlds  " 
— that — "  let's  have  some  moretodrink  oP  man 
— it  was  Fifth  o'  November — and  that  a  ruddy- 
oldbonfire  would  be — a — ruddy  oP  joke " 

Now,  at  half -past  nine,  the  company  of  twenty 
march  singing  down  the  K.P.  and  gather  unto 
themselves  others — a  murmur  is  spreading 
through  the  byways.  "  Bonfire  on  the  Common." 
"  Bonfire  on  the  Common."  The  streets  begin 
to  be  black  with  undergraduates. 


Olva  was  conscious  as  he  passed  with  Lawrence 
through  the  now  crowded  streets  that  Bunning's 
hysteria  had  had  an  effect  upon  his  nerves.  He 
could  not  define  it  more  directly  than  by 
saying  that  the  Shadow  that  had,  during  these 


FIFTH  OF  NOVEMBEE  199 

many  weeks,  appeared  to  be  pursuing  him,  at  a 
distance,  now  seemed  to  be  actually  with  him. 
It  was  as  though  three  of  them,  and  not  two, 
were  walking  there  side  by  side.  It  was  as 
though  he  were  himself  whispering  in  his  own 
ear  some  advice  of  urgent  pleading  that  he  was 
himself  rejecting  ...  he  was  even  weighted 
with  the  sense  of  some  enlarged  growth,  of 
having  in  fact  to  carry  more,  physically  as  well 
as  spiritually,  than  he  had  ever  carried  before. 
Now  it  quite  definitely  and  audibly  pleaded — 

"  Submit — submit — submit.  .  .  .  See  the 
tangle  that  you  are  getting  yourself  into.  See 
the  trouble  that  you  are  getting  others  into. 
See  the  tangle  and  muddle  that  you  are  making 
of  it  all.  .  .  .  Submit.  .  .  .  Give  in.  .  .  .  You're 
beaten." 

But  he  was  not  beaten.  Neither  the  love 
of  Margaret,  nor  the  suspicions  of  Eupert,  nor 
the  hysteria  of  Bunning  had  as  yet  defeated 
him  .  .  .  and  even  as  he  resisted  it  was  as 
though  he  were  fighting  himself. 

Sidney  Street  was  now  quite  black  with 
thronging  undergraduates  moving  towards  the 
Common.  There  was  very  little  noise  in  it 
all ;  every  now  and  again  some  voice  would  call 


200  THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

aloud  to  some  other  voice  and  would  be  answered 
back,  a  murmur  like  the  swelling  of  some  stream, 
unlike,  in  its  uniformity  and  curious  evenness 
of  note,  any  human  conversation,  seemed  to 
cling  to  the  old  grey  walls.  All  of  it  at  present 
orderly  enough  but  with  sinister  omen  in  its 
very  quiet. 

Olva  felt  an  increasing  excitement  as  he  moved. 
It  was  an  excitement  that  had  some  basis  in 
the  stir  that  was  about  him,  in  the  murmur 
like  bees  of  the  crowd,  in  the  soft  stirring  of 
grey  branches  above  the  walls  of  the  street 
against  the  night  sky,  in  the  golden  lights  that, 
set  in  dim  towers,  shone  high  up  above  their 
heads.  In  all  these  things  there  was  a  mysteri- 
ous tremor  that  beat,  with  the  rhythm  of  a  pulse, 
from  the  town's  very  heart — but  there  was  more 
than  that  in  his  excitement.  There  was  working 
in  him  a  conviction  that  he  was  now,  even  now, 
reaching  the  very  climax  of  his  adventure.  Very 
certainly,  very  surely,  the  moment  was  drawing 
near,  and  even  in  the  instant  when  he  had,  that 
very  evening,  left  his  rooms,  he  had  stepped, 
he  instinctively  knew,  out  of  one  stage  into 
another. 

"  Where  are  we  going  t  "  he  asked  Lawrence. 


FIFTH   OF  NOVEMBEE  201 

"  Common.  There's  goin'  to  be  an  old  fire. 
Hope  there's  a  row  —  don't  mind  who  I 
hit." 

The  side  streets  that  led  to  the  Common 
made  progress  more  difficult,  and,  with  the 
increased  difficulty,  came  also  a  more  riotous 
spirit.  Some  one  started  "  The  Two  Obadiahs," 
and  it  was  lustily  sung  with  a  good  deal  of 
repetition ;  several  people  had  wooden  rattles, 
intended  to  encourage  College  boats  during  the 
races,  but  very  useful  just  now.  There  were, 
at  the  point  where  the  street  plunges  into  the 
Common,  some  wooden  turnstiles,  and  these  of 
course  were  immensely  in  the  way  and  men  were 
flung  about  and  there  was  a  good  deal  of  coarse 
pleasantry,  and  one  mild  freshman,  who  had  been 
caught  into  the  crowd  by  accident,  was  flung 
on  to  the  ground  and  very  nearly  trodden  to 
death. 

The  sight  of  the  vast  and  mysterious  Common 
put  every  one  into  the  best  of  spirits.  There 
was  room  here  to  do  anything,  and  it  was  also 
dark  enough  and  wide  enough  to  escape  if  escape 
were  advisable.  Moreover  the  space  of  it 
seemed  so  limitless  that  it  negatived  any  one's 
responsibility.  A  sudden  delightful  activity 


202  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

swept  over  the  world,  and  it  was  immediately 
every-one's  business  to  get  wood  from  anywhere 
at  all  and  drag  it  into  the  middle  of  the  Common. 
As  they  moved  through  the  turnstiles  Olva  fancied 
that  he  caught  sight  of  Craven. 

On  the  Common's  edge,  with  bright  little 
lights  in  their  windows,  were  perched  a  number 
of  tiny  houses  with  strips  of  garden  in  front 
of  them.  These  little  eyes  watched,  apprehen- 
sively no  doubt,  the  shadowy  mass  that  hovered 
under  the  night  sky.  They  did  not  like  this 
kind  of  thing,  these  little  houses — they  remem- 
bered five  or  six  years  ago  when  their  cabbages 
had  been  trampled  upon,  their  palings  torn 
down,  even  hand-to-hand  contests  in  the  passages 
and  one  roof  on  fire.  Where  were  the  police  ? 
The  little  eyes  watched  anxiously.  There  was 
no  sign  of  the  police.  .  .  . 

Olva  smiled  at  himself  for  the  excitement 
that  he  was  feeling.  He  was  standing  at  present 
with  Lawrence  on  the  edge  of  the  Common, 
watching,  but  he  was  feeling  irresistibly  drawn 
towards  the  dark  pile  of  wood  that  was  rising 
slowly  towards  the  sky. 

"  As  though  one  were  ten  years  old " — and 
yet  there  was  Lawrence  murmuring, "  I'd  awfully 


FIFTH   OF   NOVEMBEB  203 

like  to  hit  somebody."  And  that,  after  all,  was 
what  it  all  came  to.  Perhaps  Olva,  if  there 
were  really  to  be  some  "  scraps,"  would  be  able 
to  work  off  some  of  his  apprehension,  of  his 
breathlessness.  Oh !  for  one  wild  ten  minutes 
when  scruples  were  flung  to  the  winds,  when 
there  was  at  last  in  front  of  one  an  enemy 
whom  one  could  touch,  whom  one  could  fling, 
physically,  brutally,  down  before  one! 

"  The  worst  of  it  is,"  Lawrence  was  saying, 
"  there  are  these  town  cads — they'll  be  in  the 
back  somewhere  shoutin'  '  It  'im,  Varsity,'  or 
somethin'  and  then  runnin'  for  their  lives  if  they 
see  a  Eobert  comin'  .  .  .  it's  rotten  bein'  mixed 
up  with  such  muck  .  .  .  anyhow  I'm  goin' 

to  have  a  dash  at  it "  and  he  had  suddenly 

plunged  forward  into  space. 

Olva  was  alone.  A  breeze  blew  across  the 
Common,  the  stars  twinkled  and  jumped  as 
though  they  were  a  mass  of  nerves,  and  with 
every  moment  restraint  was  flung  a  farther 
distance,  more  voices  called  aloud  and  shouted, 
more  men  poured  out  of  the  little  side  streets. 
It  had  the  elements  of  a  great  mystery.  It  was 
as  though  Mother  Earth  had,  with  a  great  heave 
of  her  breast,  tossed  these  shadowy  forms  into 


204  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

the  air  and  was  herself  stirring  with  the  emotion 
of  their  movement. 

There  was  an  instant's  breathless  silence ; 
to  the  roar  of  a  shouting  multitude  a  bright  hard 
flame  shot  like  steel  into  the  air — the  bonfire 
was  alight. 

Now  with  every  moment  it  mounted  higher. 
Black  pigmy  figures  were  now  dancing  round 
it  and  across  the  Common  other  figures  were 
always  passing,  dragging  wood  with  them.  The 
row  of  palings  towards  the  river  had  gone  and 
soon  those  little  cottages  that  lined  the  grass 
must  suffer.  Surely  now  the  whole  of  the  Uni- 
versity was  gathered  there !  The  crowd  was 
close  now,  dense — men  shoved  past  one  another 
crying  out  excited  cries,  waving  their  arms 
with  strange  meaningless  gestures.  They  were 
arriving  rapidly  at  that  condition  when  they 
had  neither  names  nor  addresses  but  merely 
impulses. 

Most  dangerous  element  of  all  threatened 
that  ring  of  loafers  on  the  outskirts — loafers 
from  the  town.  Here  in  this  "  mob  of  excited 
boys "  was  opportunity  for  them  of  getting 
something  back  on  that  authority  that  had  so 
often  treated  them  with  ignominy.  .  .  .  Their 


FIFTH  OF  NOVEMBER  205 

duty  to  shout  approval,  to  insult  at  a  distance, 
to  run  for  their  lives  were  their  dirty  bodies 
in  any  danger  .  .  .  but  always  to  fan  the 
flame — "  Good  old  '  Varsity — Let  them  have 
it,  the  dirty "  "Pull  their  shirts  off 


Screams,  laughter,  shouting,  wild  dancing 
— let  the  Dons  come  now  and  see  what  they  can 
make  of  it ! 

"  Bulldogs  !  "  sounded  a  voice  in  Olva's  ear, 
and  turning  round  he  beheld  a  breathless, 
dishevelled  Bunning.  "  I've  been  pulling  wood 
off  the  palings.  Ha  !  hoch  !  he  !  (such  noises  to 
recover  his  breath).  Such  a  rag !  " — and  then 
more  apprehensively,  "  Bulldogs  !  There  they 
are,  with  Metcher  !  "  They  stood,  two  enormous 
men  in  top-hats,  plainly  to  be  seen  behind  a 
Don  in  cap  and  gown,  upon  a  little  hill  to  the 
right  of  the  bonfire.  The  flames  lit  their  figures. 
Metcher,  the  Don,  was  reading  something  from 
a  paper,  and,  round  the  hill,  derisively  dancing, 
were  many  undergraduates.  Apparently  the 
Proctor  found  the  situation  too  difficult  for 
him  and  presently  he  disappeared.  Bunning 
watched  him,  apprehension  and  a  sense  of 
order  struggling  with  a  desire  for  adventure. 


206   THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

"  They've  gone  to  fetch  the  police.     There'll 
be  an  awful  row." 

There  probably  would  be  because  that  moment 
had  at  last  been  reached  when  authority  was 
flung  absolutely  to  the  winds  of  heaven.     The 
world  seemed,  in  a  moment,  to  have  gone  mad. 
Take    Bunning,   his    cheeks   flushed,  his    body 
shaking,  his  eyes  flaming,  for  an  example.     Olva, 
dark,  motionless  in  his  shadow,  watched  it  all  and 
waited  for  his  moment.    He  knew  that  it  was 
coming.    Grimly  he  addressed  the  Shadow,  now 
close  to  his  very  heart.     "  I  know  you.     You  are  \ 
urging  me  on.     This  night  is  your  business.  .  .  .   \ 
But  I  am  fighting  you  still !    I  am  fighting  you   \ 
still !  " 

The  moment  came.  Bunning,  clutching  on 
to  Olva's  sleeve,  whispered,  "  The  police ! " 
Even  at  that  crisis  of  intensest  excitement  he 
could  be  seen,  nervously,  pushing  his  spectacles 
up  his  nose.  A  surging  crowd  of  men,  and 
Olva  again  fancied  that  he  caught  sight  of 
Craven,  swept  towards  the  row  of  timid  twink- 
ling lights  with  their  neat  little  gardens  like 
trembling  protests  laid  out  before  them.  More 
wood !  more  wood !  to  appease  that  great 
flaming  monster  that  shot  tongues  of  fire  now 


FIFTH  OF  NOVEMBER  207 

to  the  very  heavens.    More  wood  !  more  wood  ! 

"  Look  out,  the  police  !  " 

They  came,  with  their  truncheons,  in  a  line 
down  the  Common.  Olva  was  flung  into  the 
heart  of  a  heaving  mass  of  legs  arid  arms.  He 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Bunning  behind  and  he 
thought  that  he  saw  Craven  a  little  to  his  right. 
He  did  not  know — he  did  not  care.  His  blood 
was  up  at  last.  He  was  shouting  he  knew  not 
what,  he  was  hitting  out  with  his  fists.  Men's 
voices  about  him — "  Let  go,  you  beast."  "  My 
God,  I'll  finish  you."  "  There  goes  a  bobby." 
"  Stamp  on  him  !  " 

A  disgraceful  scene.  The  policemen  were 
hopelessly  outnumbered.  The  crowd  broke  on 
to  the  line  of  orderly  little  gardens,  water  was 
poured  from  windows,  the  palings  were  flung  to 
the  ground — glass  broken — screams  of  women 
somewhere  in  the  distance. 

But  even  now  Olva  knew  that  his  moment  had 
not  come.  Then  some  one  shouted  in  his  ear — 
"  Town  cads  !  They're  murdering  a  bobby  !  " 
He  was  caught  with  several  other  men  (of  their 
number  was  Bunning)  off  the  Common  up  a  side 
street. 

A  blazing  lamp  showed  him  an  angry,  shout- 


208  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

ing,  jeering  crowd ;  figures  closed  round  some 
thing  on  the  ground.  Four  men  had  joined  arms 
with  him,  and  now  the  five  of  them,  shouting 
" '  Varsity  !  "  hitting  right  and  left,  rushed  into 
the  circle.  The  circle  broke  and  Olva  saw  lying 
his  length  on  the  ground,  half-stunned,  clothed 
only  in  a  torn  shirt  of  bright  blue,  a  stout  heavy 
figure— once  obviously,  from  the  clothes  flung  to 
one  side,  a  policeman,  now  with  his  large  red  face 
in  a  muddy  puddle,  his  fat  naked  legs  bent 
beneath  him,  his  fingers  clutching  dirt,  nothing 
very  human  at  all.  Town  cads  of  the  worst ! 
Some  brute  now  was  raising  his  foot  and  kicking 
the  bare  flesh ! 

Instantly  the  world  was  on  flame  for  Olva. 
Now  again,  as  once  in  Sannet  Wood,  he  must 
hit  and  hit  with  all  his  soul.  He  broke,  like  a 
madman,  into  the  heart  of  the  crowd,  sending 
it  flying.  There  were  cries  and  screams. 

He  was  conscious  of  three  faces.  There  was 
Bunning  there,  white,  staring.  There  was 
Craven,  with  his  back  to  a  house-door,  staring 
also — and  directly  before  him  was  a  purple 
face  with  muddy  hair  fringing  it  and  little 
beady  eyes.  The  face  of  the  brute  who  had 
been  kicking !  He  must  hit.  He  struck  and 


FIFTH   OF   NOVEMBEE  209 

his  fist  broke  the  flesh !  He  was  exultant  .  .  . 
at  last  he  had,  after  these  weeks  of  intangibility, 
found  something  solid.  The  face  broke  away 
from  him.  The  circle  scattered  back  and  the 
fat,  naked  body  was  lying  in  the  mud  alone. 
There  was  a  sudden  silence.  Olva,  conscious 
of  a  great  power  surging  through  his  body,  raised 
his  hand  again. 

A  voice,  shrill,  terror  in  it,  screamed,  "  Look 
out,  man,  he'll  kill  you ! " 

He  turned  and  saw  under  the  lamplight 
Craven,  his  eyes  blazing,  his  finger  pointed. 
He  was  suddenly  cold  from  head  to  foot.  The 
voice  came,  it  had  seemed,  from  heaven. 
Craven's  eyes  were  alive  now  with  certainty. 
Then  there  was  another  cry  from  somewhere  of 
"  The  police ! "  and  the  crowd  had  melted. 
In  the  little  street  now  there  were  only  the  body 
of  the  policeman  and  a  handful  of  undergradu- 
ates. 

They  raised  the  man,  poured  water  over  him, 
found  some  of  his  clothes,  and  two  men  led  him, 
his  head  lolling,  down  the  street. 

There  was  a  noisy  world  somewhere  in  the 
distance,  but  here  there  was  silence.  Olva  crept 
slowly  out  of  his  exultation  and  found  himself 

v 


210   THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

in  the  cold  windy  street  with  Bunning  for  his 
only  companion. 

Bunning — now  a  torn,  dirty,  bleeding  Bunning, 
gripped  his  arm. 

"  Did  you  hear  t  " 

"  Hear  what  !  " 

"  Craven — when  you  were  fighting  there — 
Craven  was  watching  ...  I  saw  it  all  ... 
Craven  suspects." 

Olva  met  the  frightened  eyes — "  He  does  not 
suspect." 

"  Didn't  you  hear  t  He  called  out  to  the 
cad  you  were  going  for.  ..."  Then,  in  a  kind 
of  whimper,  dismal  enough  in  the  dreary  little 
street — "  He'll  find  out — Craven — I  know  he 
will,  ...  Oh  !  my  God  !  what  shall  I  do  !  " 

Some  one  had  broken  the  glass  of  the  street 
lamp  and  the  gas  flared  above  them,  noisily. 


CHAPTEE    XH 

LOVE  TO  THE  "  VALSE  TBISTE  n 


IT  was  all,  when  one  looked  back  upon  it, 
the  rankest  melodrama.  The  darkness, 
the  flaming  lamp,  Craven's  voice  and  eyes, 
Bunning  ...  it  had  all  arranged  itself  as 
though  it  had  been  worked  by  a  master  dramatist. 
At  any  rate  there  they  now  were,  the  three  of 
them — Olva,  Bunning,  Craven — placed  in  a 
situation  that  could  not  possibly  stay  as  it  was. 
In  which  direction  was  it  going  to  develop  ? 
Bunning  had  no  control  at  all,  it  would  be  he 
who  would  supply  the  next  move  .  .  .  mean- 
while in  the  back  of  Olva's  mind  there  was  that 
hanging  sense  of  urgency,  no  time  to  be  lost. 
He  must  see  Margaret  and  speak  before  Eupert 
spoke  to  her.  Perhaps,  even  now,  Craven  was 
not  certain.  If  he  only  knew  of  how  much 
Craven  was  sure  !  Did  he  feel  sure  enough  to 
speak  to  Margaret  ? 

811 


212   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

Meanwhile  the  first  and  most  obvious  thing 
was  that  Bunning  was  in  a  state  of  terror  that 
threatened  instant  exposure.  The  man  was 
evidently  realizing  that  now,  for  the  first  time, 
he  had  a  big  thing  with  which  he  must  grapple. 
He  must  grapple  with  his  devotion  to  Olva, 
with  his  terror  of  Craven,  but,  most  of  all,  with 
his  terror  of  himself.  That  last  was  obviously 
the  thing  that  tortured  him,  for,  having  now 
been  given  by  the  High  Gods  an  opportunity 
of  great  service,  so  miserable  a  creature  did  he 
consider  himself  that  he  would  not  for  an  instant 
trust  his  control.  He  was  trying,  Olva  saw, 
with  an  effort  that  in  its  intensity  was  pathetic 
to  prove  himself  worthy  of  the  chance  that  had 
been  offered  him,  as  though  it  were  the  one  sole 
opportunity  that  he  would  ever  be  given,  but 
to  appear  to  the  world  something  that  he  was 
not  was  an  art  that  Bunning  and  his  kind  could 
never  acquire — that  is  their  tragedy.  It  was  the 
fate  of  Bunning  that  his  boots  and  spectacles 
should  always  negative  any  attempt  that  he 
might  make  at  a  striking  personality. 

On  the  night  after  the  "  Eag "  he  sat  in 
Olva's  room  and  made  a  supreme  effort  at 
control. 


LOVE  TO  THE  "  VALSE  TEISTE  "    213 

"  If  you  can  only  hold  on,"  Olva  told  him, 
"  to  the  end  of  term.  It's  only  a  week  or  two 
now.  Just  stick  it  until  then  j  you  won't  be 
bothered  with  me  after  that." 

"  You're  going  away  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know — it  depends.* 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  if  you  went. 
To  have  to  stand  that  awful  secret  all  alone  .  .  . 
only  me  knowing.  Oh  !  I  couldn't !  I  couldn't ! 
and  now  that  Craven " 

"  Craven  knows  nothing.  He  doesn't  even 
suspect  anything.  See  here,  Bunning" — Olva 
crossed  over  to  him  and  put  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  "  Don't  you  see  that  your  behaviour 
makes  me  wish  that  I  hadn't  told  you,  whereas 
if  you  care  as  you  say  you  do  you  ought  to  want 
to  show  me  how  you  can  carry  it,  to  prove  to  me 
that  I  was  right  to  tell  you " 

"  Yes,  I  know.     But  Craven " 

"  Craven  knows  nothing." 

"  But  he  does."  Bunning's  voice  became 
shrill  and  his  fat  hand  shook  on  Olva's  arm. 
"  There's  something  I  haven't  told  you.  This 
morning  in  Outer  Court  he  stopped  me." 

"  Craven  stopped  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.    There   was    no   one   about.    I   was 


214  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

going  along  to  my  rooms  and  he  met  me  and 
he  said  :  '  Hullo,  Bunning.'  " 
"  WeU  t  " 

"  I'd  been  thinking  of  it — of  his  knowing,  I 
mean — all  night,  so  I  was  dreadfully  startled, 
dreadfully  startled.     I'm  afraid  I  showed  it." 
"  Get  on.    What  did  he  say  *  " 
"  He   said  :     '  Hullo,   Bunning  ! '  " 
"  Yes,  you've  told  me  that.    What  else  ?  " 
"  I  said  '  Hullo  ! '    I  was  dreadfully  startled. 
I  don't  think  he'd  ever  spoken  to  me  before. 
And  then  he  looked  so  strange — wild,  as  though 
he  hadn't  slept,  and  white,  and  his  eyes  moved 
all  the  time.    I'm  afraid  he  saw  that  I  was 
startled." 

"  Do  get  on.  What  else  did  he  ask  you  ?  " 
"  He  asked  me  whether  I'd  enjoyed  last  night. 
He  said  :  '  You  were  with  Dune,  weren't  you  t ' 
He  cried,  as  though  he  wasn't  speaking  to  me  at 
all :  *  That's  an  odd  sort  of  friend  for  you  to 
have.'  I  ought  to  have  been  angry  I  suppose, 
but  I  was  shaking  all  over  .  .  .  yes  .  .  well  .  .  . 
then  he  said  :  '  I  thought  you  were  in  with  all 
those  pi  men,'  and  I  just  couldn't  say  anything 
at  all — I  was  shaking  so.  He  must  have  thought 
I  looked  very  odd." 


LOVE  TO  THE  "  VALSE  TEISTE  "   215 

"  I'm  sure  he  did,"  said  Olva  drily.  "  Well 
it  won't  be  many  days  before  you  give  the  show 
away — that's  certain." 

What  could  have  made  him  tell  the  fellow  t 
What  madness  ?  What ? 

But  Bunning  caught  on  to  his  sleeve. 

"  No,  no,  you  mustn't  say  that,  Dune,  please, 
you  mustn't.  I'm  going  to  do  my  best,  I  am 
really.  But  his  coming  suddenly  like  that,  just 
when  I'd  been  thinking.  .  .  .  But  it's  awful. 
I  told  you  if  any  one  suspected  it  would  make 
it  so  hard " 

"  Look  here,  Bunning,  perhaps  it  will  help 
you  if  you  know  the  way  that  I'm  feeling  about 
it.  I'll  try  and  explain.  All  these  days  there's 
something  in  me  that's  urging  me  to  go  out  and 
confess." 

"  Conscience,"  said  Bunning  solemnly. 

"  No,  it  isn't  conscience  at  all.  It's  some- 
thing quite  different,  because  the  thing  that's 
urging  me  isn't  urging  me  because  I've  done 
something  I'm  ashamed  of,  it's  urging  me  be- 
cause I'm  in  a  false  position.  There's  that  on 
the  one  side,  and,  on  the  other,  I'm  in  love  with 
Eupert  Craven's  sister." 

Bunning  gave  a  little  cry. 


216   THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVEOTTJBE 

"  Yes.  Tliat  complicates  tilings,  doesn't  it  t 
Now  you  see  why  Bupert  Craven  is  the  last  person 
who  must  know  anything  about  it ;  it's  because 
he  loves  his  sister  so  much  and  suspects,  I  think, 
that  I  care  for  her,  that  he's  going  to  find  out 
the  truth." 

"  Does  she  care  for  you  ?  "  Bunning  brought 
out  huskily. 

"  I  don't  know.  That's  what  I've  got  to  find 
out." 

"  Because  it  all  depends  on  that.  If  she  cares 
enough  it  won't  matter  what  you've  done,  and 
/  if  she  doesn't  care  enough  it  won't  matter  her 
knowing  because  you  oughtn't  to  marry  her. 
Oh,"  and  Bunning's  eyes  as  they  gazed  at  Olva 
were  those,  once  more,  of  a  devoted  dog  :  "  she's 
lucky."  Then  he  repeated,  as  though  to  himself, 
in  his  odd  husky  whisper :  "  Anything  that  I 
can  do  ...  anything  that  I  can  do  .  ,  ." 


On  the  next  evening,  about  five  o'clock,  Olva 
went  to  the  house  in  Bocket  Boad.  He  went 
through  a  world  that,  in  its  frosty  stillness, 
held  beauty  in  its  hands  like  a  china  cup,  so 


LOVE  TO  THE  "  VALSE  TEISTB  n  217 

fragile  in  its  colours,  so  gentle  in  its  outline, 
with  a  moon,  round  and  of  a  creamy  white, 
with  a  sky  faintly  red,  and  stiff  trees,  black  and 
sharp. 

Cambridge  came  to  Olva  then  as  a  very  lovely 
thing.  The  Cambridge  life  was  a  lovely  thing 
with  its  kindness,  its  simplicity,  its  optimism. 
He  was  penetrated  too  with  a  great  sadness 
because  he  knew  that  life  of  that  kind  was  gone, 
once  and  for  ever,  from  him ;  whatever  came 
to  him  now  it  could  never  again  be  that  peace  j 
the  long  houses  flung  black  shadows  across  the 
white  road  and  God  kept  him  company.  .  .  . 

Miss  Margaret  Craven  had  not  yet  come  in, 
but  would  Mr.  Dune,  perhaps,  go  up  and  see 
Mrs.  Craven  ?  The  old  woman's  teeth  chattered 
in  the  cold  little  hall.  "  We  are  dead,  all  of  us 
dead  here,"  the  skins  on  the  walls  seemed  to 
say ;  "  and  you'll  be  dead  soon  ...  oh !  yes, 
you  will." 

Olva  went  up  to  Mrs.  Craven.  The  windows 
of  her  room  were  tightly  closed  and  a  great 
fire  was  blazing ;  before  this  she  lay  stretched 
out  on  a  sofa  of  faded  green — her  black  dress, 
her  motionless  white  hands,  her  pale  face,  her 
moving  eyes. 


218  THE  PKELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

She  had  beside  her  to-day  a  little  plate  of 
dry  biscuits,  and,  now  and  again,  her  hand 
would  move  across  her  black  dress  and  break 
one  of  these  with  a  sharp  sound,  and  then  her 
hand  would  fall  back  again. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.  Draw  your 
chair  to  the  fire.  It  is  a  chill  day,  but  fine,  I 
believe." 

She  regarded  him  gravely. 

"  It  is  not  much  of  life  that  I  can  watch  from 
this  room,  Mr.  Dune.  It  is  good  of  you  to  come 
and  see  me  ...  there  must  be  many  other  things 
for  you  to  do." 

He  came  at  once  to  the  point. 

"  I  want  your  permission  to  ask  your  daughter 
to  marry  me,  Mrs.  Craven." 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  them.  He 
seemed,  in  his  inner  consciousness,  to  be  carrying 
on  a  dialogue. 

"  You  see,"  he  said  to  the  Shadow,  "  I  have 
forestalled  you.  I  shall  ask  Margaret  Craven 
this  evening  to  marry  me.  You  cannot  prevent 
that  .  .  .  you  cannot." 

And  a  voice  answered :  "  All  things  betray 
Thee  Who  betrayest  Me." 

"  You  have  known  us  a  very  short  time,  Mr. 


LOVE  TO  THE  "  VALSE  TEISTE  "   219 

Dune."  Mrs.  Craven's  voice  came  to  him  from 
a  great  distance. 

He  felt  as  though  he  were  speaking  to  two 
persons.  "  Time  has  nothing  to  do  with  falling 
in  love,  Mrs.  Craven." 

He  saw  to  his  intense  amazement  that  she  was 
greatly  moved.  She,  who  had  always  seemed  to 
him  a  mask,  now  was  suddenly  revealed  as 
suffering,  tortured,  intensely  human.  Her  thin 
white  hands  were  pressed  together. 

"  I  am  a  lonely,  unhappy  woman,  Mr.  Dune. 
Margaret  is  now  all  that  is  left  to  me.  Every- 
thing has  been  taken  from  me.  Eupert " 

Her  voice  was  lost ;  very  slowly  tears  rolled 
down  her  cheeks.  She  began  again  desperately. 
"  Margaret  is  all  that  I  have  got.  If  I  were 
left  alone  it  would  be  too  much  for  me.  I 
could  not  endure  the  silence." 

It  was  the  more  moving  in  that  it  followed 
such  stern  reserve.  His  own  isolation,  the 
curious  sense  that  he  had  that  they  were,  both  of 
them,  needing  protection  against  the  same 
power  (it  seemed  to  him  that  if  he  raised  his  eyes 
he  would  see,  on  the  opposite  wall,  the  shadow 
of  that  third  Presence) ;  this  filled  him  with 
the  tenderest  pity,  so  that  suddenly  he  bent 
down  very  gravely  and  kissed  her  hand. 


220    THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

She  caught  his  with  a  fierce  convulsive  move- 
ment, and  so  they  sat  in  silence  whilst  he  felt 
the  pulse  of  her  hand  beat  through  his  body, 
and  once  a  tear  rolled  from  her  cheek  on  to  his 
wrist. 

"  You  understand  .  .  ."  she  said  at  last. 
"  You  understand.  I  have  always  seen  that  you 
know.  ..."  Then  she  whispered,  "How  did 
you  know  t " 

"  Know  t  "  He  was  bewildered,  but  before 
she  could  speak  again  the  door  opened  and 
Margaret  Craven  came  in. 

She    moved    with    that    restrained    emotion, 
that  he  had  seen  in  her  when  he  had  first  met 
her.    She  was  some  great  force  held  in  check, 
some  fire  that  blazed  but  must  be  hidden  from 
the  world,  and  as  she  bent  over  her  mother  and  * 
kissed  her  the  embrace  had  in  it    something  \ 
of   passionate   protest ;     both   women   seemed 
to  assert  in  it  their  right  to  quite  another  sort 
of  life. 

He  saw  that  his  moment  with  Mrs.  Craven  had 
passed.  That  fire,  that  humanity  had  gone 
from  her  and  she  lay  back  now  on  her  sofa  with 
the  faint  waxen  lids  closed  upon  her  eyes,  her 
hands  thinly  folded,  almost  a  dead  woman. 

\ 


LOVE  TO  THE  "  VALSE  TEISTE  "  221 

Margaret  kissed  her  again — now  softly  and 
gently,  and  Olva  went  with  her  from  the 
room. 


He  was  prepared  to  find  that  Eupert  had  told 
her  everything.  He  thought  that  he  saw  in  the 
gravity  and  sadness  of  her  manner,  and  also  in  the 
silence  that  she  seemed  deliberately  at  first  to 
place  between  them,  that  she  was  waiting  for  the 
right  moment  to  break  it  to  him.  He  felt  that 
she  would  ask  him  gravely  and  with  great  kind- 
ness, but  that,  in  the  answer  that  he  would  give 
her,  it  must  be  all  over  .  .  .  the  end.  The 
pursuit  would  be  concluded. 

Then  suddenly  in  the  way  that  she  looked 
at  him  he  knew  that  she  had  been  told  nothing. 

"  I'm  afraid  that  mother  is  very  unwell.  I'm 
afraid  that  you  must  have  found  her  so." 

"  If  she  could  get  away "  he  began. 

"  Ah  !  if  we  could  all  get  away  !  If  only  we 
could !  But  we  have  talked  of  that  before. 
It  is  quite  impossible.  And,  even  if  we  could 
(and  how  glad  I  should  be  !),  I  do  not  know  that 
it  would  help  mother.  It  is  Eupert  that  is 
breaking  her  heart !  " 


222   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

"  Eupert !  " 

For  answer  to  his  exclamation  she  cried  to 
him  with  all  the  pent-up  suffering  and  loneliness 
of  the  last  weeks  in  her  voice — 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Dune,  help  me !  I  shall  go  mad 
if  something  doesn't  happen ;  every  day  it  is 
worse  and  I  can't  grapple  with  it.  I'm  not  up 
to  it.  If  only  they'd  speak  out !  but  it's  this 
silence !  "  She  seemed  to  pull  herself  together 
and  went  on  more  quietly :  "  You  know  that 
Eupert  and  I  have  been  everything  to  one  another 
all  our  lives.  We  have  never  had  a  secret  of  any 
kind.  Until  this  last  month  Eupert  was  the  most 
open,  dearest  boy  in  the  world.  His  tenderness 
with  my  mother  was  a  most  wonderful  thing, 
and  to  me ! — I  cannot  tell  you  what  he  was  to 
me.  I  suppose,  for  the  very  reason  that  we 
were  so  much  to  one  another,  we  did  not  make 
any  other  very  close  friends.  I  had  girls  in 
Dresden,  of  course,  and  there  were  men  at 
school  and  college  for  whom  he  cared,  but  I 
think  there  can  have  been  few  brothers  and 
sisters  who  were  so  entirely  together  in  every 
way.  A  month  ago  that  all  ceased." 

She  flung  her  head  back  with  a  sharp  defiant 
movement  as  though  the  memory  of  it  hurt  her. 


LOVE  TO  THE  "  VALSE  TEISTE  "  223 

"  I've  told  you  this  before.  I  talked  to  you 
about  it  when  you  were  here  last.  But  since 
then  he  has  become  much  worse  and  I  am 
afraid  that  anything  may  happen.  I  have  no 
one  to  go  to.  It  is  killing  my  mother,  and 
then — you  were  a  friend  of  his." 

"  I  hope  that  I  am  now." 

"  That  is  the  horrible  part  of  it.  But  it 
seems  now  that  all  this  agitation,  this  trouble, 
is  directed  against  you." 

"  Against  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  other  evening  he  spoke  about  you — 
here — furiously.  He  said  you  must  never  come 
here  again,  that  I  must  never  speak  to  you  again. 
He  said  that  you  had  done  dreadful  things. 
And  then  when  I  asked  him  he  could  not  tell  me 
anything.  He  seemed — and  you  must  look  on  it 
in  that  light,  Mr.  Dune — as  though  he  were  not 
in  the  least  responsible  for  what  he  said.  I'm 
afraid  he  is  very,  very  ill.  He  is  dreadfully 
unhappy,  and  yet  he  can  explain  nothing.  I  too 
have  been  very  unhappy,  and  mother,  because  we 
love  him." 

"If  he  wishes  that  I  should  not  come  here 
again "  Olva  began. 

"  But  he  is  not  responsible.    He  really  does 


224  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

not  know  what  he  is  doing.  He  never  had  the 
smallest  trouble  that  he  did  not  confide  it  to 
me,  and  now " 

"  I  have  noticed,  of  course,"  Olva  said,  "  that 
lately  his  manner  to  me  has  been  strange.  I 
would  have  helped  him  if  he  would  let  me,  but 
he  will  not.  He  will  have  nothing  to  say  to  me 
...  I  too  have  been  very  sorry  about  it.  I  have 
been  sorry  because  I  am  fond  of  Rupert,  but 
also — there  is  another,  stronger  reason — because 
I  love  you,  Margaret." 

As  he  spoke  he  got  up  and  stood  by  her  chair. 
He  saw  her  take  in  his  last  words,  at  first  with  a 
wondering  gravity,  then  with  a  sudden  splendour 
so  that  light  flooded  her  face  ;  her  arms  made  a 
little  helpless  gesture,  and  she  caught  his  hand. 

He  drew  her  up  to  him  out  of  her  chair  ;  then, 
with  a  fierce  passionate  movement,  they  held 
one  another  and  clung  together  as  though  in  a 
desperate  wild  protest  against  the  world. 

"  You  can't  touch  me  now — I've  got  her," 
he  seemed  to  fling  at  the  blank  face  of  the  old 
mirror. 

It  was  his  act  of  defiance,  but  through  his 
exultation  he  caught  the  whisper — it  might 
again  have  been  conveyed  to  him  through  the 


LOVE  TO  THE  "  VALSE  TEISTE  "     225 

slirill  shivering  notes  of  the  "  Valse  Triste  " — 
"  Tell  her — tell  her — now.  Trust  her.  Dear 
son,  trust  Me  ...  it  must  be  so  in  the  end." 

"  Now,"  he  heard  her  say,  "  I  can  stand  it 
all." 

"  When  you  came  into  this  room  weeks  ago," 
she  went  on,  "  I  loved  you ;  from  the  very  first 
instant.  Now  I  do  not  mind  what  any  one  can 
do." 

"  I  too  loved  you  from  the  first  instant." 

"  You  were  so  grave.  I  tried  at  first  not  to 
think  of  you  as  a  person  at  all  because  I  thought 
that  it  was  safer,  and  then  gradually,  although 
I  fought  against  you,  I  could  not  keep  you  out. 
You  drove  your  way  in.  You  understood  so 
wonderfully  the  things  that  I  wanted  you  to 
understand.  Then  Eupert  and  mother  drove 
me  to  want  you  more  and  more.  I  thought 
that  you  liked  me,  but  I  didn't  know.  .  .  ."  Then 
with  a  little  shiver  she  clung  to  him,  pressing 
dose  to  him.  "  Oh  !  hold  me,  hold  me  safe." 

The  room  was  now  gathering  to  itself  that 
dusk  that  gave  it  its  strangest  air.  The  fire 
had  fallen  very  low  and  only  shone  now  in  the 
recesses  of  the  high  fireplace  with  a  dull  glimmer. 
Amongst  the  shadows  it  seemed  that  the  Presence 

0 


226  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

was  gravely  waiting.  As  Olva  held  Margaret  in 
his  arms  he  felt  that  he  was  fighting  to  keep  her. 

In  the  dark  hollow  of  the  mirror  he  thought 
that  he  saw  the  long  white  road,  the  mists, 
the  little  wood  and  some  one  running.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  to  him  that  Margaret  was  not 
there,  that  the  room  was  dark  and  very  heavy, 
that  some  bell  was  ringing  in  his  ear.  .  .  .  Then 
about  him  a  thousand  voices  were  murmuring : 
"  Tell  her— tell  her— tell  her  the  truth." 

With  a  last  effort  he  tried  to  cry  "  I  will  not 
tell  her." 

His  lips  broke  on  her  name  "  Margaret." 
Then,  with  a  little  sigh,  tumbling  forward,  he 
fainted. 


CHAPTEB    XIII 

MRS.   CRAVEN 


A  FTEEWAEDS,  lying  in  his  easy  chair 
•**•  before  his  fire,  he  was  allowed  a  brief 
and  beautiful  respite.  It  was  almost  as  though 
he  were  already  dead — as  though,  consciously, 
he  might  lie  there,  apart  from  the  world,  freed 
from  the  eternal  pursuit,  at  last  unharassed,  and 
hold,  with  both  hands,  that  glorious  certainty — 
Margaret. 

He  had  a  picture  of  her  now.  He  was  lying 
where  he  had  tumbled,  there  on  the  floor  with 
the  silver  trays  and  boxes,  the  odd  tables,  the 
gimcrack  chairs  all  about  him.  Slowly  he  had 
opened  his  eyes  and  had  gazed,  instantly,  as 
though  the  gates  of  heaven  had  rolled  back  for 
him,  into  her  face.  She  was  kneeling  on  the 
floor,  one  hand  was  behind  his  head,  the  other 
bathed  his  forehead.  He  could  see  her  breasts  (so 
little,  so  gentle)  rise  and  fall  beneath  her  thin 


228   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

dress,  and  her  great  dark  eyes  caught  his  soul 
and  held  it. 

In  that  one  great  moment  God  withdrew. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  knowledge  of  her  they 
were  alone,  and  in  the  kiss  that  he  gave  to  her 
when  he  drew  her  down  to  him  they  met  for  the 
first  time.  Death  and  the  anger  of  God  might 
come  to  him — that  great  moment  could  never 
be  taken  from  him.  It  was  his.  ... 

He  had  seen  that  she  was  gravely  distressed 
with  his  fainting,  and  he  had  been  able  to  give 
her  no  reason  beyond  the  heat  of  the  room. 
He  could  see  that  she  was  puzzled  and  felt  that 
there  was  some  mystery  there  that  she  was  not 
to  know,  but  she  too  had  found  in  that  last  kiss 
a  glorious  certainty  that  no  other  hazard  could 
possibly  destroy. 

He  loved  her — she  loved  him.  Let  the  Gods 
thunder ! 

But  he  knew,  nevertheless,  as  he  lay  back 
there  in  the  chair,  that  he  had  received  a  sign. 
That  primrose  path  with  Margaret  was  not  to  be 
allowed  him,  and  so  sure  was  he  that  now  he 
could  lie  back  and  look  at  it  all  as  though  he  were 
a  spectator  and  wonder  in  what  way  God  in- 
tended to  work  it  out.  The  other  side  of  him — 


MES.    CRAVEN  229 

the  fighting,  battling  creature — was,  for  the 
moment,  dormant.  Soon  Bunning  would  come 
in  and  then  the  fight  would  begin  again,  but 
for  the  instant  there  was  peace — the  first  peace 
that  he  had  known  since  that  far-away  evening 
in  St.  Martin's  Chapel. 

As  with  a  drowning  man  (it  is  said)  so  now 
with  Olva  his  past  life  stretched,  in  panorama, 
before  him.  He  saw  the  high  rocky  grey 
building  with  its  rough  shape  and  shaggy  lichen, 
its  neglected  courtyard,  its  iron-barred  windows, 
the  gaunt  trees,  like  witches,  that  hemmed  it, 
the  white  ribbon  of  road,  far,  far  below  it,  the 
shining  gleam  of  the  river  hidden  by  purple 
hills.  He  saw  his  father — huge,  flowing  grey 
beard,  eyebrows  stuck,  like  leeches,  on  to  his 
weather-beaten  face,  his  gnarled  and  knotted 
hands.  He  saw  himself  a  tiny  boy  with  thin 
black  hair  and  grave  eyes  watching  his  father 
as  he  bathed  in  the  mill-pool  below  the  house — 
his  father  rising  naked  from  the  stream,  hung 
with  the  mists  of  early  morning,  naked  with 
enormous  chest,  huge  flanks,  his  beard  black 
then  and  sweeping  across  his  breast,  his  great 
thighs  shining  with  the  dripping  water— primitive, 
primeval,  in  the  heart  of  the  early  morning  silence. 


230  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

Many,  many  other  pictures  of  those  first  days, 
but  always  Olva  and  his  father,  moving  together, 
speaking  but  seldom,  sitting  before  the  fire  in 
the  evenings,  watching  the  blaze,  despising  the 
world.  The  contempt  that  his  father  had  for 
his  fellow-beings  !  Had  a  man  ever  been  so 
alone  t  Olva  himself  had  drunk  of  that  same 
contempt  and  welcomed  his  solitude  at  Harrow. 
The  world  had  been  with  him  a  place  of  war,  of 
hostility,  until  he  had  struck  that  blow  in 
Sannet  Wood.  He  remembered  the  eager- 
ness with  which,  at  the  end  of  term,  he  had 
hastened  back  to  his  father.  After  the  noise 
and  clatter  of  school  life  how  wonderful  to  go 
back  to  the  still  sound  of  dripping  water,  to 
the  crackle  of  dry  leaves  under  foot,  to  the  heavy 
solemn  tread  of  cattle,  to  those  evenings  when 
at  his  father's  side  he  heard  the  coals  click 
in  the  fire  and  the  old  clock  on  the  stairs  wheeze 
out  the  passing  minutes.  That  relationship 
with  his  father  had  been,  until  this  term, 
the  only  emotion  in  his  life — and  now  ?  And 
now! 

It  was  incredible  this  change  that  had  come 
to  him.  First  there  was  Margaret  and  then, 
after  her,  Mrs.  Craven,  Eupert,  Lawrence, 


MES.   CEAVEN  231 

Cardillac,  Bunning.  All  these  persons,  in  vary- 
ing degree,  had  become  of  concern  to  him.  The 
world  that  had  always  been  a  place  of  smoke, 
of  wind,  of  sky,  was  now,  of  a  sudden,  crowded 
with  figures.  He  had  been  swept  from  the 
hill-top  down  into  the  market-place.  He  had 
been  given  perhaps  one  keen  glance  of  a  moving 
world  before  he  was  drawn  from  it  altogether. 
.  .  .  Now,  just  as  he  had  tasted  human  com- 
panionship and  loved  it,  must  he  die  ? 

He  knew,  too,  that  his  recent  popularity  in 
the  College  had  pleased  him.  He  wanted 
them  to  like  him  ...  he  was  proud  to  feel 
that  because  he  was  he  therefore  Cardillac 
resigned,  willingly,  his  place  to  him.  But  if 
Cardillac  knew  him  for  a  felon,  knew  that  he 
might  be  hanged  in  the  dark  and  flung  into  a 
nameless  grave,  what  then  ?  If  Cardillac  knew 
what  Eupert  Craven  almost  knew,  would  not 
his  horror  be  the  same  ?  The  world,  did  it  only 
know.  .  .  . 

To-morrow  was  the  day  of  the  Dublin  match. 
Olva  and  Cardillac  were  both  playing,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  game  choice  might  be  made 
between  them.  Did  Olva  care  ?  He  did  not 
know  .  .  .  but  Margaret  was  coming,  and,  in  the 


232   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

back  of  his  mind,  he  wanted  to  show  her  what 
he  could  do. 

And  yet,  whilst  that  Shadow  hovered  in  the 
Outer  Court,  how  little  a  thing  this  stir  and 
movement  was  !  No  tumult  that  the  material 
world  could  ever  make  could  sound  like  that 
whisper  that  was  with  him  now  again  in  the 
room — with  him  at  his  very  heart — "  All  things 
betray  Thee.  .  .  ." 

The  respite  was  over.    Bunning  came  in. 

Change  had  seized  Bunning.  Here  now  was 
the  result  of  his  having  pulled  himself  together. 
Olva  could  see  that  the  man  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  something,  and  that,  further,  he  was 
resolved  to  keep  his  purpose  secret.  It  was 
probably  the  first  occasion  in  Bunning's  life 
of  such  resolution.  There  was  a  faint  colour  in 
the  fat  cheeks,  the  eyes  had  a  little  light  and 
the  man  scarcely  spoke  at  all  lest  this  purpose 
should  trickle  from  his  careless  lips.  Also 
as  he  looked  at  Olva  his  customary  devotion 
was  heightened  by  an  air  of  frightened  pride. 

Olva,  watching  him,  was  apprehensive — the 
/  devotion  of  a  fool  is  the  most  dangerous  thing 
v,  in  creation. 

"  Well,  have  yon  seen  Craven  again  T  " 


MES.   CEAVEN  233 

"Yes.    We  had  a  talk." 

"  What  did  he  say  t  " 

"Oh,  nothing." 

"  Eot.  He  didn't  stop  and  talk  to  you  about 
the  weather.  Come  on,  Bunning,  what  have 
you  been  up  to  f  " 

"  I  haven't  been  up  to  anything." 

The  man's  lips  were  closed.  For  another 
half  an  hour  Bunning  sat  in  a  chair  before  the 
fire — silent.  Every  now  and  again  he  flung  a 
glance  at  Olva.  Sometimes  he  jerked  his  head 
towards  the  window  as  though  he  heard  a  step. 

He  had  the  look  of  a  Christian  going  into  the 
amphitheatre  to  face  the  Beasts. 

2 

About  eleven  o'clock  of  the  next  morning 
Olva  went  to  see  Margaret.  He  had  written 
to  her  the  night  before  and  asked  her  not  to  tell 
Eupert  the  news  of  their  engagement  immediately, 
but,  when  the  morning  came,  he  could  not  rest 
with  that.  He  must  know  more. 

It  was  a  damp,  misty  morning,  the  fine  frost 
had  gone.  He  was  going  to  Margaret  to  try 
and  recover  some  reality  out  of  the  state  that 
he  was  in.  The  recent  incidents — Craven's 


234   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

suspicions,  the  5th  of  November  evening,  Bun- 
ning's  alarm,  the  scene  with  Margaret — had 
dragged  him  for  a  time  from  that  conviction 
that  he  was  living  in  an  unreal  world.  That 
day  when  he  had  run  in  the  snowstorm  from 
Sannet  Wood  had  seemed  to  him,  during  these 
last  weeks,  absurd  and  an  effect,  obviously,  of 
excited  nerves.  Now,  on  this  morning  of  the 
Dublin  match,  he  awoke  again  to  that  unreal 
condition.  The  bedmaker,  the  men  passing 
through  the  Court  beneath  his  windows,  the  porter 
at  the  gate — these  people  were  unreal,  and 
above  him,  around  him,  the  mist  seemed  ever 
about  to  break  into  new  terrible  presences. 

"  This  thing  is  wearing  me  down.  I  shall  go 
off  my  head  if  something  definite  doesn't  hap- 
pen " — and  then,  there  in  his  room  with  the 
stupid  breakfast  things  still  on  the  table,  the 
consciousness  of  the  presence  of  God  seized 
him  so  that  he  felt  as  though  the  pursuit  were 
suddenly  at  an  end  and  there  was  nothing  left 
now  but  complete  submission. 

jr      In  this  world  of  wraiths,  God  was  the  most  ^ 

i  certain  Presence.  .  .  . 

There  remained  only  Margaret.  Perhaps  she 
could  recover  reality  for  him.  He  went  to  her. 


MES.   CEAVEN  235 

He  found  her  waiting  for  him  in  tne  little 
drawing-room  and  he  could  not  see  her.  He 
knew  then  that  the  Pursuing  Shadow  had  taken 
a  new  step.  It  was  literally  physically  true. 
The  room  was  there,  the  shining  things,  the 
knick-knacks,  the  mirror,  the  scent  of  oranges. 
He  could  see  her  body,  her  black  dress,  her  eyes, 
her  white  neck,  the  movement  towards  him  that 
she  made  when  she  saw  him  coming,  but  there 
was  nothing  there.  It  was  as  though  he  had 
been  asked  to  love  a  picture. 

He  could  not  think  of  her  at  all  as  Margaret 
Craven  or  of  himself  as  Olva  Dune.  Only  in  the 
glass's  reflection  he  saw  the  white  road  stretch- 
ing to  the  wood. 

"  I  really  am  going  off  my  head.  She'll  see 
that  something's  up " — and  then  from  the 
bottom  of  his  heart,  far  away  as  though  it  had 
been  the  cry  of  another  person,  "  Oh !  how  I 
want  her  !  How  I  want  her  !  " 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  and 
felt  as  though  he  were  dead  and  she  were  dead, 
and  that  they  were  both,  being  so  young  and 
eager  for  life,  struggling  to  get  back  existence 
again. 

Her  voice  came  to  him  from  a  long  distance : 


236   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVEOTUEE 

"  Olva,  how  ill  you  look  !  What  is  it  ?  Why 
won't  you  tell  me  t  There's  something  the 
matter  with  you  all  and  you  all  keep  me  in  the 
dark." 

He  said  nothing  and  she  went  on  very  gently, 
"  It  would  be  so  much  better,  dear,  if  you  were  to 
tell  me.  After  all,  I'm  part  of  you  now,  aren't 
I  T  Perhaps  I  can  help  you." 

His  own  voice,  from  a  long  distance,  said : 
"  I  don't  think  that  you  can  help  me,  Margaret." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  looked  up 
into  his  face.  "  I  am  trying  to  help  you  all, 
but  it  is  so  difficult  if  you  will  tell  me  nothing. 
And,  Olva  dear,  if  it  is  something  that  you 
have  done — something  that  you  are  afraid  to  tell 
me — believe  me,  dear,  that  there's  nothing — 
nothing  in  the  world — that  you  could  have  done 
that  would  matter  to  me  now.  I  love  you — 
nothing  can  alter  that." 

He  tried  to  feel  that  the  hand  on  his  arm  was 
real.  With  a  great  effort  he  spoke :  "  Have 
you  told  Eupert  ?  " 

"  Mother  told  him  last  night." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know — but  they  had  a  terrible  scene. 
Eupert,"  her  lip  quivered,  "  went  away  with- 


MES.    CEAVEN  237 

out  a  word  last  night.  Only  he  told  mother 
that  if  I  would  not  give  you  up  he  would  never 
come  into  the  house  again.  But  he  loves  me 
more  than  any  one  in  the  world,  and  he  can't 
do  without  me.  I  know  that  he  can't,  and  I 
know  that  he  will  come  back.  Mother  wants 
to  see  you ;  perhaps  you  will  go  up  to  her." 

She  had  moved  back  from  him  and  was 
looking  at  him  with  sad  perplexity.  He  knew 
that  he  must  seem  strange  and  cold  standing 
there,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  without  making 
any  movement  towards  her,  but  he  could  not 
help  himself,  he  seemed  to  have  no  power  over 
his  own  actions. 

Coming  up  to  him  she  flung  her  arms  round  his 
neck.  "  Olva,  Olva,  tell  me,  I  can't  endure  it  " 
— but  slowly  he  detached  himself  from  her  and 
left  her. 

As  he  went  through  the  dark  close  passage 
he  wondered  how  God  could  be  so  cruel. 

When  he  came  into  Mrs.  Craven's  room  he  knew 
that  her  presence  comforted  him.  The  dark 
figure  on  the  faded  sofa  by  the  fire  seemed  to 
him  now  more  real  than  anything  else  in  the 
world.  Although  Mrs.  Craven  made  no  move- 
ment yet  he  felt  that  she  encouraged  him  to 


238   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

come  to  her,  that  she  wanted  him.  The  room 
was  very  dark  and  bare,  and  although  a  large  fire 
blazed  in  the  hearth,  it  was  cold.  Beyond  the 
window  a  misty  world,  dank,  with  dripping 
trees,  stretched  to  a  dim  horizon.  Mrs.  Craven 
did  not  turn  her  eyes  from  the  fire  when  she 
heard  him  enter.  He  felt  as  though  she  were 
watching  him  and  knew  that  he  had  drawn 
a  chair  beside  the  sofa.  Suddenly  she  moved 
her  hand  towards  him  and  he  took  it  and  held 
it  for  a  moment. 

She  turned  and  he  saw  that  she  had  been 
crying. 

"  I  had  a  talk  with  my  son  last  night,"  she 
said  at  last,  and  her  voice  seemed  to  him  the 
saddest  thing  that  he  had  ever  heard.  "  We 
had  always  loved  one  another  until  lately. 
Last  night  he  spoke  to  me  as  he  has  never 
spoken  before.  He  was  very  angry  and  I 
know  that  he  did  not  mean  all  that  he  said 
to  me — but  it  hurt  me." 

"  I'm  afraid,  Mrs.  Craven,  that  it  was  because 
of  me.  Eupert  is  very  angry  with  me  and  he 
refuses  to  consent  to  Margaret's  marriage  with 
me.  Is  not  that  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  not  only  that.    For  many 


MES.   CEAVEN  239 

weeks  now  he  has  not  been  himself  with  me. 
I  am  not  a  happy  woman.  I  have  had  much 
to  make  me  unhappy.  My  children  are  a  very 
great  deal  to  me.  I  think  that  this  has  broken 
my  heart." 

"  Mrs.  Craven,  if  there  is  anything  that  I  can 
do  that  will  put  things  right,  if  I  can  say  any- 
thing to  Eupert,  if  I  can  tell  him  anything, 
explain  anything,  I  will.  I  think  I  can  tell  you, 
Mrs.  Craven,  why  it  is  that  Eupert  does  not 
wish  me  to  marry  Margaret.  I  have  something 
to  confess — to  you." 

Then  he  was  defeated  at  last  ?  He  had 
surrendered  ?  In  another  moment  the  words 
"  I  killed  Carfax  and  Eupert  knows  that  I 
killed  him  "  would  have  left  his  lips — but  Mrs. 
Craven  had  not  heard  his  words.  Her  face  was 
turned  away  from  him  again  and  she  spoke  in  a 
strange,  monotonous  voice  as  one  speaks  in  a 
dream. 

The  words  seemed  to  be  created  out  of  the 
faded  sofa,  the  misty  window,  the  dim  shadowy 
bed.  She  was  crying — her  hands  were  pressed 
to  her  face — the  words  came  between  her  sobs. 

"  It  is  too  much  for  me.  All  these  years  I 
have  kept  silence.  Now  I  can  bear  it  no  longer. 


240   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

If  Eupert  leaves  me,  it  will  kill  me,  but  unless  I 
speak  to  some  one  I  shall  die  of  all  this  silence. 
...  I  cannot  bear  any  longer  to  be  alone  with 
God." 

Was  it  his  own  voice  ?  Were  these  his  own 
words  ?  Had  things  gone  so  far  with  him  that 
he  did  not  know — "  I  cannot  bear  any  longer 
to  be  alone  with  God.  .  .  ."  Was  not  that  his 
own  perpetual  cry  ? 

"  Mr.  Dune,  I  killed  my  husband." 

In  the  silence  that  followed  the  only  sound 
was  her  stifled  crying  and  the  crackling  fire. 

"  You  knew  from  the  beginning." 

"  UTo,  I  did  not  know." 

"  But  you  were  different  from  all  the  others. 
I  felt  it  at  once  when  I  saw  you.  You  knew, 
you  understood,  you  were  sorry  for  me." 

"  I  am  sorry.  I  understand.  But  I  did  not 
know." 

"  Let  me  tell  you."  She  turned  her  face 
towards  him  and  began  to  speak  eagerly. 

He  took  her  hand  between  his. 

"  Oh  !  the  relief — now  at  once — after  all  these 
years  of  silence.  Fifteen  years.  .  .  .  It  happened 
when  Eupert  was  a  tiny  boy.  You  see  he  was  a 
bad  man.  I  found  it  out  almost  at  once — after 


MRS.   CRAVEN  241 

a  month  or  two.  But  I  loved  him  madly — utterly. 
I  did  not  care  about  his  being  bad — that  does 
not  matter  to  a  woman — but  he  set  about  break- 
ing my  heart.  It  amused  him.  Margaret  was 
born.  He  used  to  terrify  me  with  the  things 
that  he  would  teach  her.  He  said  that  he  would 
make  her  as  big  a  devil  as  he  was  himself.  I 
prayed  God  that  I  might  never  have  another 
child  and  then  Rupert  was  born.  From  that 
moment  my  one  prayer  was  that  my  husband 
might  die. 

"  At  last  my  opportunity  came.  He  fell  ill 
— dreadful  attacks  of  heart — and  one  night  he 
had  a  terrible  attack  and  I  held  back  the  medicine 
that  would  have  saved  him.  I  saw  his  eyes 
watching  me,  pleading  for  it.  I  stood  and 
waited  ...  he  died." 

She  stopped  for  a  moment — then  her  words 
came  more  slowly  :  "It  was  a  very  little  thing — 
it  was  not  a  very  bad  thing — he  was  a  wicked 
man  .  .  .  but  God  has  punished  me  and  He  will 
punish  me  until  I  die.  All  these  years  He  has 
pursued  me,  urging  me  to  confess — I  have 
fought  and  struggled  against  it,  but  at  last 
He  has  beaten  me — He  has  driven  me.  .  .  .  Oh ! 
the  relief  !  the  relief  !  " 

R 


242   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

She  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"  If  you  did  not  know,  why  did  I  feel  that  you 
understood  and  sympathized  ?  Have  you  no 
horror  of  me  now  ?  " 

For  answer,  he  bent  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

"  I  too  am  very  lonely.  I  too  know  what 
God  can  do." 

Then  she  clung  to  him  as  though  she  would 
never  let  him  leave  her. 


CHAPTEE    XIV 

GOD 

1 

HALF  an  hour  later  he  was  in  his  room  again, 
and  the  real  world  had  come  back  to  him. 
It  had  come  back  with  the  surprise  of  some 
supernatural  mechanism ;  it  was  as  though  the 
sofa,  chairs,  pictures  had  five  minutes  before 
been  grass  and  toadstools  in  a  world  of  mist  and 
now  were  sofa,  chairs  and  pictures  again. 

He  was  absolutely  sane,  whereas  half  an  hour 
ago  he  had  been  held  almost  by  an  enchantment. 
If  Margaret  were  here  with  him  now,  here  in  his 
room — not  in  that  dim,  horrible  Eocket  Eoad 
house,  raised  it  might  almost  seem  by  the  super- 
stitions and  mists  of  his  own  conscience — ah ! 
how  he  would  love  her ! 

Meanwhile  the  sofa  and  chairs  were  no  longer 
mushrooms — he  would  never,  please  God,  see 
mushrooms  again. 

He  was  filled  with  a  sense  of  energy  and  enter- 

243 


244  THE  PEELUDE  TO  AD  VENTURE 

prise.  He  would  have  it  out  with  Eupert, 
laugh  away  his  suspicions,  reconcile  him  to  the 
idea  of  the  marriage,  finally  drag  Margaret  from 
that  horrible  house.  As  with  a  man  who  has 
furious  attacks  of  neuralgia,  and  between  the 
agony  of  them  feels,  so  great  is  the  relief,  that 
no  pain  will  ever  come  to  him  again,  so  Olva 
was  now,  for  an  instant,  the  Olva  of  a  month 
ago. 

Pour  times  had  the  Pursuer  thus  given  him 
respite — on  the  morning  after  the  murder,  in 
St.  Martin's  Chapel  on  that  same  evening,  after 
his  confession  to  Bunning,  and  now.  But  Aegi- 
dius,  looking  down  from  his  wall,  saw  the  strong, 
stern  face  of  his  young  friend  and  loved  him 
and  knew  that,  at  last,  the  pursuit  was  at  an 
end.  .  .  . 

Bunning  came  in. 


Bunning  came  in.  The  little  silver  clock  had 
just  struck  a  quarter  to  one.  The  match  was  at 
half-past  two. 

Olva  knew  at  his  first  sight  of  Bunning  that 
•omething  had  happened.  The  man  seemed 
dazed,  he  dragged  his  great  legs  slowly  after  him 


GOD  245 

and  planted  them  on  the  floor  as  though  he 
wanted  something  that  was  secure,  like  a  man 
who  had  begun  desperately  to  slip  down  a  cre- 
vasse. His  back  was  bowed  and  his  cheeks  were 
flushed  as  though  some  one  had  been  striking 
him,  but  his  eyes  told  Olva  everything.  They 
were  the  eyes  of  a  child  who  has  been  wakened 
out  of  sleep  and  sees  Terror. 

"  What  is  it  ?  Sit  down.  Full  yourself  to- 
gether." 

"  Oh  !  Dune  !  .  .  .  My  God,  Dune  !  "  The 
man's  voice  had  the  unreality  of  men  walking 
in  a  cinematograph.  "  Craven's  coming." 

"  Coming  !    Where  !  " 

"  Here  ! " 

"Now?  " 

"  I  don't  know — when.     He  knows." 

"  You  told  him  1  " 

"  I  thought  it  best.  I  thought  I  was  doing 
right.  It's  all  gone  wrong.  Oh !  these  last 
two  days  !  what  I've  suffered  !  " 

Now  for  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the 
whole  affair  Olva  Dune  may  be  said  to  have  felt 
sheer  physical  terror,  not  terror  of  the  mist,  of 
the  road,  of  the  darkness,  of  the  night,  but  terror 
of  physical  things — of  the  loss  of  light  and  air,  of 


f. 


246  THE  PEELUDE  TO  AD  VENTURE 

the  denial  of  food,  of  physical  death.  .  .  .  For  a 
moment  the  room  swam  about  him.  He  heard,  in 
the  Court  below  him,  some  men  laughing — a  dog 
was  barking.  Then  he  saw  that  Bunning  was  on 
the  edge  of  hysteria.  The  bedmaker  would  come 
in  and  find  him  laughing — as  he  had  laughed  once 
before. 

Olva  stilled  the  room  with  a  tremendous  effort 
— the  floor  sank,  the  table  and  chairs  tossed  no 
longer. 

"  Now,  Bunning,  tell  me  quickly.  They'll 
be  here  to  lay  lunch  in  a  minute.  What  have 
you  told  Craven  ?  And  why  have  you  told 
him  anything  t  " 

"  I  told  him — yesterday — that  I  did  it." 

"  That  you  did  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  I  murdered  Carfax." 

"  My  God  !     You  fool '  .      .  You  fool !  " 

A  most  dangerous  thing  this  devotion  of  a 
fool! 

But,  strangely,  Olva's  words  roused  in  Bunning 
a  kind  of  protest,  so  that  he  pulled  his  eyes 
back  into  their  sockets,  steadied  his  hands,  held 
his  boots  firmly  to  the  floor,  and,  quite  softly, 
with  a  little  note  of  urgency  in  it  as  though  he 
were  pleading  before  a  great  court,  said — 


GOD  247 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Bnt  he  drove  me  to  it  j 
Craven  did.  I  thought  it  was  the  only  way  to 
save  yon.  He's  been  at  me  now  for  days  ;  ever 
since  that  time  he  stopped  me  in  Outer  Court 
and  asked  me  why  I  was  a  friend  of  yours.  He's 
been  coming  to  my  room — at  night — at  all  sorts 
of  times — and  just  sitting  there  and  looking  at 
me." 

Olva  came  across  and  touched  Bunning's  arm : 
"  Poor  Bunning !  What  a  brute  I  was  to  tell 
you ! " 

"  He  used  to  come  and  say  nothing — just  look 
at  me.  I  couldn't  stand  it,  you  know.  I'm 
not  a  clever  man — not  at  all  clever — and  I  used 
to  try  and  think  of  things  to  talk  about,  but  it 
always  seemed  to  come  back  to  Carfax— every 
time. 

"  And  then — when  you  told  me  the  other  day 
about  your  caring  for  Miss  Craven — I  felt  that 
I  must  do  something.  I'd  always  puzzled,  you 
know,  why  I  should  be  brought  into  it  at  all.  I 
didn't  seem  to  be  the  sort  of  fellow  who'd  be 
likely  to  be  mixed  up  with  a  man  like  you. 
I  felt  that  it  must  be  with  some  purpose,  you 
know,  and  now — now — I  thought  I  suddenly 
saw 


248  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

**  I  don't  know — I  thought  he'd  believe  me — 
I  thought  he'd  tell  the  police  and  they'd  arrest 
me— and  that'd  be  the  end  of  it." 

Here  Bunning  took  a  handkerchief  and  began 
miserably  to  gulp  and  sniff. 

"  But,  good  heavens  !  "  Olva  cried,  "  you 
didn't  suppose  that  they  wouldn't  discover  it 
all  at  the  police-station  in  a  minute !  Two 

questions    and    you'd  be    done!      Why,   man 
i» 

"  I  didn't  know.  I  thought  it  would  be  all 
right.  I  was  all  alone  that  afternoon,  out  for  a 
walk  by  myself — and  you'd  told  me  how  you 
did  it.  I'd  only  got  to  tell  the  same  story.  I 
couldn't  see  how  anyone  should  know — I  couldn't 
really  ...  I  don't  suppose" — many  gulps — 
"that  I  thought  much  about  that — I  only 
wanted  to  save  you." 

How  bright  and  wonderful  the  day !  How 
full  of  colour  the  world  !  And  it  was  all  over, 
all  absolutely,  finally  done. 

"  Now — look  here,  stop  that  sniffing — it's 
all  right.  I'm  not  angry  with  you.  Just  tell 
me  exactly  what  you  said  to  Craven  yesterday 
when  you  told  him." 

Bunning  thought.    "  Well,  he  came  into  my 


GOD  249 

room  quite  early  after  my  breakfast.  I  was 
reading  my  Bible,  as  I  used  to,  you  know, 
every  morning,  to  see  whether  I  could  be  inter- 
ested again,  as  I  used  to  be.  I  was  finding  I 
couldn't  when  Craven  came  in.  He  looked 
queer.  He's  been  looking  queerer  every  day,  and 
I  don't  think  he's  been  sleeping.  Then  he  began 
to  ask  me  questions,  not  actually  about  anything, 
but  odd  questions  like,  Where  was  I  born  T  and 
Why  did  I  read  the  Bible  ?  and  things  like  that 
— just  to  make  me  comfortable — and  his  eyes 
were  so  funny,  red  and  small  and  never  still.  Then 
he  got  to  you." 

The  misery  now  in  Bunning's  eyes  was  more 
than  Olva  could  bear.  It  was  dumb,  uncom- 
prehending misery,  the  unhappiness  of  some- 
thing caught  in  a  trap — and  that  trap  this 
glittering  dancing  world ! 

"  Then  he  got  to  you !  He  always  asked  me 
the  same  questions.  How  long  I'd  known  you  ? 
— Why  we  got  on  together  when  we  were  so 
different  f — silly  meaningless  things — and  he 
didn't  listen  to  my  answers.  He  was  always 
thinking  of  the  next  things  to  ask,  and  that 
frightened  me  so." 

The  misery  in  Bunning's  eyes  grew  deeper. 


260   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

"  Suddenly  I  thought  I  saw  what  was  meant — 
that  I  was  intended  to  take  it  on  myself.  It 
made  me  warm  all  over,  the  thought  of  it.  ... 
Now,  I  was  going  to  do  something  .  .  .  that's 
how  I  saw  it !  " 

"  Going  to  do  something  .  .  ."  he  repeated 
desperately,  with  choking  sobs  between  the 
words.  "  It's  all  happened  so  quickly.  He  had 
just  said  absently,  not  looking  at  me,  *  You 
like  Dune,  don't  you  ?  ' 

"  When  I  came  out  with  it — all  at  once — I 
said,  *  Yes,  I  know,  I  know  what  you  want.  You 
think  that  Dune  killed  Carfax  and  that  I 
know  he  did,  but  he  didn't — I  killed 
Carfax.  .  .  .' " 

Bunning's  voice  quite  rang  out.  His  eyes 
now  desperately  sought  Olva's  face,  as  though  he 
would  find  there  something  that  would  make 
the  world  less  black. 

"  I  wasn't  frightened — not  then — that  was  the 
odd  thing.  The  only  thing  I  thought  about  was 
saving  you — getting  you  out  of  it.  I  didn't  see  ! 
I  didn't  see  !  " 

"  And  then — what  did  Craven  say  f  "  Olva 
asked  quietly. 

"  Craven  said  scarcely  anything.    He  asked 


GOD  251 

me  whether  I  realized  what  I  was  saying,  whether 
I  saw  what  I  was  in  for  ?  I  said  *  Yes  ' — that 
it  had  all  been  too  much  for  my  conscience,  that 
I  had  to  tell  some  one — all  the  things  that  yon 
told  me.  Then  he  asked  me  why  I'd  done  it. 
I  told  him  because  Carfax  always  bullied  me — he 
did,  you  know — and  that  one  day  I  couldn't 
stand  it  any  longer  and  I  met  him  in  the  wood 
and  hit  him.  He  said, '  You  must  be  very  strong,' 
and  of  course  I'm  not,  you  know,  and  that  ought 
to  have  made  me  suspect  something.  But  it 
didn't.  .  .  .  Then  he  said  he  must  think  over 
what  he  ought  to  do,  but  all  the  time  he  was 
saying  it  I  knew  he  was  thinking  of  something 
else — and  then  he  went  away." 
"That  was  yesterday  morning?" 
"  Yesterday  morning,  and  all  day  I  was  terri- 
fied, but  happy  too.  I  thought  I'd  done  a  big 
thing  and  I  thought  that  the  police  would  come 
and  carry  me  off.  .  .  .  Nothing  happened  all 
day.  I  sat  there  waiting.  And  I  thought  of 
you — that  you'd  be  able  to  marry  Miss  Craven 
and  would  be  very  happy. 

"  Then,  this  morning,  coming  from  chapel, 
Craven  stopped  me.  I  thought  he  was  going  to 
tell  me  that  he'd  thought  it  his  duty  to  give  me 


252   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

away.  He  would,  you  know.  But  it  wasn't 
that. 

"  All  he  said  was  :  *  I  wonder  how  you  know 
so  much  about  it,  BunniDg.'  I  couldn't  say 
anything.  Then  he  said,  '  I'm  going  to  ask 
Dune.'  That  was  all  ...  all,"  he  wretchedly 
repeated,  and  then,  with  a  movement  of  utter 
despair,  flung  his  head  into  his  hands,  and 
cried. 

Olva,  standing  straight  with  his  hands  at  his 
side,  looked  through  his  window  at  the  world — 
at  the  white  lights  on  the  lower  sky,  at  the  pearl 
grey  roofs  and  the  little  cutting  of  dim  white 
street  and  the  high  grey  college  wall.  He  was  to 
begin  again,  it  seemed,  at  the  state  in  which  he'd 
been  on  the  day  after  Carfax's  murder.  Then 
he  had  been  sure  that  arrest  would  only  be  a 
question  of  hours  and  he  had  resolutely  faced 
it  with  the  resolve  that  he  would  drain  all  the 
life,  all  the  vigour,  all  the  fun  from  the  minutes 
that  remained  to  him. 

Now  he  had  come  back  to  that.  Craven  would 
give  him  away,  perhaps  ...  he  would,  at  any 
rate,  drive  him  away  from  Margaret.  But  he 
would  almost  certainly  feel  it  his  duty  to 
expose  him.  He  would  feel  that  that  would  end 


GOD  263 

the  complication  with  his  sister  once  and  for  all — 
the  easiest  way.  He  would  feel  it  his  duty — 
these  people  and  their  duty ! 

Well,  at  least  he  would  have  his  game  of  foot- 
ball first — no  one  could  take  his  afternoon  away 
from  him.  Margaret  would  be  there  to  watch 
him  and  he  would  play !  Oh !  he  would  play 
as  he  had  never  played  in  his  life  before ! 

Bunning's  voice  came  to  him  from  a  great 
distance — 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  What  are  you 
going  to  say  to  Craven  *  " 

"Say  to  him?  Why,  I  shaU  tell  him,  of 
course — tell  him  everything." 

Bunning  leapt  from  his  chair.  In  his  urgency 
he  put  his  hands  on  Olva's  arm  :  "  No,  no,  no. 
You  mustn't  do  that.  Why  it  will  be  as  though 
I'd  murdered  you.  Tell  him  I  did  it.  Make 
him  believe  it.  You  can — you're  clever  enough. 
Make  him  feel  that  I  did  it.  You  mustn't, 
mustn't — let  him  know.  Oh,  please,  please.  I'll 
kill  myself  if  you  do.  I  will  really." 

Olva  gravely,  quietly,  put  his  hands  on  Bun- 
ning's shoulders. 

"  It's  all  right — it  had  to  come  out  I've  been 
avoiding  it  all  this  time,  escaping  it,  but  it  had 


254   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

to  come.  Don't  you  be  afraid  of  it.  I  daresay 
Craven  won't  do  anything.  After  all  he  loves 
his  sister  and  she  cares  for  him.  That  will 
influence  him.  But,  anyhow,  all  that's  done 
with.  There  are  bigger  things  in  question  than 
Craven  knowing  about  Carfax,  and  you  were 
meant  to  tell  him — you  were  really.  You've 
just  forced  me  to  see  what's  the  right  thing  to 
do— that's  all." 

Bunning  was,  surely,  in  the  light  of  it,  a 
romantic  figure. 

Miss  Annett  came  in  with  the  lunch, 


As  Olva  was  changing  into  his  football  things, 
Cardillac  appeared. 

"  Come  up  to  the  field  with  me,  will  you  t 
I've  got  a  hansom." 

Olva  finished  tying  his  boots  and  stood  up. 
Cardillac  looked  at  him. 

"  My  word,  you  seem  fit." 

"  Yes,  I'm  splendid,  thanks.  " 

He  felt  splendid.  Never  before  had  he  been 
so  conscious  of  the  right  to  be  alive.  His  foot- 
ball clothes  smelt  of  the  earth  and  the  air.  He 


GOD  265 

moved  his  arms  and  legs  with  wonderful  freedom. 
His  blood  was  pumping  through  his  body  as 
though  death,  disease,  infirmity — such  things — 
were  of  another  planet. 

For  such  a  man  as  he  there  should  only  be  air, 
love,  motion,  the  begetting  of  children,  the 
surprising  splendour  of  a  sudden  death.  Now 
already  Craven  was  waiting  for  him. 

He  had  sent  a  note  round  to  Craven's  rooms ; 
he  had  said,  "  Come  in  to  see  me  after  the 
match — five  o'clock.  I  have  something  to  tell 
you." 

At  five  o'clock  then.  .  .  . 

Meanwhile  it  was  nice  of  Cardillac  to  come. 
They  exchanged  no  words  about  it,  but  they 
understood  one  another  entirely.  It  was  as 
though  Cardillac  had  said — "  I  expect  that 
you're  going  to  knock  me  out  of  this  Bugger 
Blue  as  you  knocked  me  out  of  the  Wolves,  and 
I  want  to  show  you  that  we're  pals  all  the 
way  through." 

What  Cardillac  really  said  was — "  Have  a 
cigarette  ?  These  are  Turkish.  Feel  like  play- 
ing a  game  to-day  t " 

"  Never  felt  better  in  my  life." 

"  Well,  these  Dublin  fellows  haven't  had  their 


256   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVEOTUEE 

line  crossed  yet  this  season.    May  one  of  us  have 
the  luck  to  do  it." 

"  Pretty  hefty  lot  of  forwards." 
"  Yes,  O'Brien's  their  spot  Three  I  believe." 
Olva  and  Cardillac  attracted  much  attention 
as  they  walked  through  the  College.  Miss 
Annett,  watching  them  from  a  little  window 
where  she  washed  plates,  gulped  in  her  thin 
throat  with  pride  for  "  that  Mr.  Dune.  There's 
a  gentleman !  "  The  sun  above  the  high  grey 
buildings  broke  slowly  through  yellow  clouds. 
The  roads  were  covered  with  a  thin  fine  mud 
and,  from  the  earth,  faint  clouds  of  mist  rose 
and  vanished  into  a  sky  that  was  slowly 
crumbling  from  thick  grey  into  light  watery 
blue. 

The  cold  air  beat  upon  their  faces  as  the 
hansom  rattled  past  Dunstan's,  over  the  bridge, 
and  up  the  hill  towards  the  field. 

Cardillac  talked.  "  There  goes  Braff.  He 
doesn't  often  come  up  to  a  game  nowadays — 
must  be  getting  on  for  seventy — the  greatest 
half  the  'Varsity's  ever  had,  I  suppose. 

"  It's  a  good  thing  this  mud  isn't  thicker.  It 
won't  make  the  ball  bad.  That  game  against 
Monkstown  the  other  day !  My  word.  .  .  ." 


GOD  257 

But  Olva  was  not  listening.  It  seemed  to 
him  now  that  two  separate  personalities  were 
divided  in  him  so  sharply  that  it  was  impossible 
to  reconcile  them. 

There  was  Olva  Dune  concentrating  all  his 
will;  his  mentality,  upon  the  game  that  he  was 
about  to  play.  This  was  his  afternoon.  After 
it  there  would  be  darkness,  death,  what  you  will 
— parting  from  Margaret — all  purely  physical 
emotions. 

The  other  Olva  felt  nothing  physical.  The 
game,  confession  to  Eupert,  trial,  imprisonment, 
even  separation  from  Margaret,  all  these  things 
were  nothing  in  comparison  with  some  great 
business  that  was  in  progress  behind  it  all,  as 
real  life  may  go  on  behind  the  painted  back  cloth 
of  a  stage.  Here  were  amazing  happenings, 
although  at  present  he  was  confused  and  be- 
wildered by  them.  It  was  not  that  Olva  was, 
actually,  at  the  instant  conscious  of  actual  im- 
pressions, but  rather  that  great  emotions,  great 
surprising  happiness,  seemed  to  shine  on  some 
horizon.  It  was  as  though  something  had  said 
to  his  soul,  "  Presently  you  will  feel  a  joy,  a 
splendour,  that  you  had  never  in  your  wildest 
thoughts  imagined." 


258   THE  PEELUDB  TO  ADVENTTJEE 

The  pursuit  was  almost  at  an  end.  He  was 
now  enveloped,  enfolded.  Already  everything 
to  him — even  his  love  for  Margaret — was  trivial 
in  comparison  with  the  effect  of  some  atmos- 
phere that  was  beginning  to  hem  him  in  on 
every  side. 

But  against  all  this  was  the  other  Olva — the 
Olva  who  desired  physical  strength,  love,  freedom, 
health. 

Well,  let  it  all  be  as  confusing  as  it  might,  he 
would  play  his  game.  But  as  he  walked  into 
the  Pavilion  he  knew  that  the  prelude  to  his 
real  life  had  only  a  few  more  hours  to  run.  .  .  . 

4 

As  he  passed,  with  the  rest  of  the  team,  up  the 
field,  he  observed  two  things  only ;  one  thing 
was  Margaret,  standing  on  the  left  side  of  the 
field  just  below  the  covered  stand — he  could  see 
her  white  face  and  her  little  black  hard  hat. 

The  other  thing  was  that  on  the  horizon  where 
the  wall  at  the  further  end  of  the  field  cut  the 
sky  there  were  piled,  as  though  resting  on  the 
top  of  the  wall,  high  white  clouds.  For  a 
moment  these  clouds,  piled  in  mountain  shape  of 
an  intense  whiteness  with  round  curving  edges, 


GOD  259 

held  his  eyes  because  they  exactly  resembled 
those  clouds  that  had  hung  above  him  on  the 
day  of  his  walk  to  Sannet  Wood — the  day  when 
he  had  been  caught  by  the  snowstorm.  These 
clouds  brooded,  waiting  above  him ;  their  daz- 
zling white  had  the  effect  of  a  steady,  un- 
swerving gaze. 

They  lined  out.  He  took  his  place  as  centre 
three-quarter  with  Cardillac  outside  left  and 
Tester  and  Buchan  on  the  other  wing.  Old  Law- 
rence was  standing,  a  solid  rock  of  a  figure,  back. 
There  was  a  great  crowd  present.  The  tops  of 
the  hansom  cabs  in  the  road  beyond  rose  above 
the  wall  and  he  could  hear,  muffled  with  distance, 
shots  from  the  'Varsity  firing  range. 

All  these  things  focussed  themselves  upon  his 
brain  in  the  moment  before  the  whistle  went ; 
the  whistle  blew,  the  Dublin  men  had  kicked  off, 
Tester  had  fielded  the  ball,  sent  it  back  into 
touch,  and  the  game  had  begun. 

This  was  to  be  the  game  of  his  life  and  yet  he 
could  not  centre  his  attention  upon  it.  He  was 
conscious  that  Whymper — the  great  Whymper — 
was  acting  as  linesman  and  watching  every  move- 
ment. He  knew  that  for  most  of  that  great 
crowd  his  was  the  figure  that  was  of  real  concern, 


260  THE  PBELUDB  TO  ADVENTUBE 

he  knew  tliat  he  was  as  surely  battling  for  his 
lady  as  though  he  had  been  fighting,  tourna- 
ment-wise, six  hundred  years  ago. 

But  it  all  seemed  of  supreme  unimportance. 
To-night  he  was  to  face  Eupert,  to  state,  once 
and  for  all,  that  he  had  killed  Carfax,  to  submit 
Margaret  to  a  terrible  test  .  .  .  even  that  of  no 
importance.  All  life  was  insignificant  beside 
something  that  was  about  to  happen ;  before 
the  gaze  of  that  white  dazzling  cloud  he  felt 
that  he  stood,  a  little  pigmy,  alone  on  a  brown 
spreading  field. 

The  game  was  up  at  the  University  end.  The 
Dublin  men  were  pressing  and  the  Cambridge 
forwards  seemed  to  have  lost  their  heads.  It  was 
a  case  now  of  "  scrum,"  lining  out,  and  "  scrum  " 
again.  The  Cambridge  men  got  the  ball,  kept 
it  between  their  heels  and  tried  desperately  to 
wheel  with  it  and  carry  it  along  with  them.  It 
escaped  them,  dribbled  out  of  the  scrimmage, 
the  Cambridge  half  leapt  upon  it  but  the  Dublin 
man  was  upon  him  before  he  could  get  it  away. 
It  was  on  the  ground  again,  the  Dublin  forwards 
dribbled  it  a  little  and  then  some  one,  sweeping 
it  into  his  arms,  fell  forward  with  it,  over  the 
line,  the  Cambridge  men  on  top  of  him, 


GOD  261 

Dublin  had  scored  a  try,  and  a  goal  from  an 
easy  angle  followed — Dublin  five  points. 

They  all  moved  back  to  the  centre  of  the  field 
and  now  the  Cambridge  men,  rushing  the  ball 
from  a  line-out  in  their  favour,  pressed  hard. 
At  last  the  ball  came  to  the  three-quarters.  Tes- 
ter caught  it,  it  passed  to  Buchan,  who  as  he  fell 
flung  it  right  out  to  Cardillac  ;  Cardillac  drew  his 
man,  swerved,  and  sent  it  back  to  Olva.  As 
Olva  felt  the  neat  hard  surface  of  it,  as  he  knew 
that  the  way  was  almost  clear  before  him,  his 
feet  seemed  clogged  with  heavy  weights.  Some- 
thing was  about  to  happen  to  him — something, 
but  not  this.  The  crowd  behind  the  ropes  were 
shouting,  he  knew  that  he  was  himself  running, 
but  it  seemed  that  only  his  body  was  moving, 
his  real  self  was  standing  back,  gazing  at  those 
white  clouds — waiting. 

He  knew  that  he  made  no  attempt  to  escape  the 
man  in  front  of  him  ;  he  seemed  to  run  straight 
into  his  arms  ;  he  heard  a  little  sigh  go  up  from 
behind  the  ropes,  as  he  tumbled  to  the  ground, 
letting  the  ball  trickle  feebly  from  his  fingers.  A 
try  missed  if  ever  one  was  ! 

No  one  said  anything,  but  he  felt  the  disap- 
pointment in  the  air.  He  knew  what  they  were 


262  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

saying — "  One  of  Dune's  off  days  !  I  always 
said  you  couldn't  depend  upon  the  man.  He's 
just  too  sidey  to  care  what  happens.  .  .  ." 

Well  they  might  say  it  if  they  would ;  his 
eyes  were  on  the  horizon. 

But  his  failure  had  had  its  effect.  Let  there 
be  an  individualist  in  the  line  and  Tester  and 
Buchan  would  play  their  well-ordered  game 
to  perfection.  They  relied  as  a  rule  upon 
Whymper — to-day  they  had  depended  upon 
Dune.  Well  Dune  had  failed  them,  the  forwards 
were  heeling  so  slowly,  the  scrum-half  was  never 
getting  the  ball  away — it  was  a  miserable  affair. 

The  Dublin  forwards  pressed  again.  For  a 
long  time  the  two  bodies  of  men  swayed  back- 
wards and  forwards ;  in  the  University  twenty-five 
Lawrence  was  performing  wonders.  He  seemed 
to  be  everywhere  at  once,  bringing  men  down, 
seizing,  in  a  lightning  flash  of  time,  his  oppor- 
tunity for  relieving  by  kicking  into  touch. 

Twice  the  ball  went  to  the  Dublin  three- 
quarters  and  they  seemed  certainly  in,  but  on 
the  first  occasion  a  man  slipped  and  on  the  second 
Olva  caught  his  three-quarter  and  brought  him 
sharply  to  the  ground.  It  was  the  only  piece 
of  work  that  he  had  done. 


GOD  263 

More  struggling — then  away  on  the  right  some 
Dublin  man  had  caught  it  and  was  running. 
Some  one  dashed  at  him  to  hurl  him  into  touch, 
but  he  slipped  past  and  was  in. 

Another  try — the  kick  was  again  successful 
— Dublin  ten  points. 

The  half-time  whistle  blew.  As  the  men 
gathered  into  groups  in  the  middle  of  the  field, 
sucking  lemons  and  gathering  additional  melan- 
choly therefrom,  Olva  stood  a  little  away  from 
them,  Whymper  came  out  into  the  field  to  exhort 
and  advise.  As  he  passed  Olva  he  said — 

"  Bather  missed  that  try  of  yours.  Ought 
to  have  gone  a  bit  faster." 

He  did  not  answer,  it  seemed  to  be  no  concern 
of  his  at  all.  He  was  now  trembling  in  every 
limb,  but  his  excitement  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  game.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  earth  and 
the  sky  were  sharing  his  emotion  and  he  could 
feel  in  the  air  a  great  exaltation.  It  was  be- 
coming literally  true  for  him  that  earth,  air,  sky 
were  praising  at  this  moment,  in  a  wonderful 
unison,  some  great  presence. 

"  All  things  betray  Thee  who  betrayest 
Me.  .  .  ."  Now  he  understood  what  that  line 
had  intended  him  to  feel — the  very  sods  crushed 


264  THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

by    his    boots    were   leading   Trim    to  submis 
sion. 

The  whistle  sounded.  His  back  now  was 
turned  to  the  white  clouds ;  he  was  facing  the 
high  stone  wall  and  the  tops  of  the  hansom 
cabs. 

The  game  began  again.  The  Dublin  men  were 
determined  to  drive  their  advantage  to  victory. 
Another  goal  and  their  lead  might  settle,  once 
and  for  all,  the  issue. 

Olva  was  standing  back,  listening.  The  earth 
was  humming  like  a  top.  A  voice  seemed  to 
be  borne  on  the  wind — "  Coming,  Coming, 
Coming." 

He  felt  that  the  clouds  were  spreading  behind 
him  and  a  little  wind  seemed  to  be  whispering 
in  the  grass — "  Coming,  Coming,  Coming."  His 
very  existence  now  was  strung  to  a  pitch  of 
expectation. 

As  in  a  dream  he  saw  that  a  Dublin  man  with 
the  ball  had  got  clear  away  from  the  clump  of 
Cambridge  forwards,  and  was  coming  towards 
him.  Behind  him  only  was  Lawrence.  He 
flung  himself  at  the  man's  knees,  caught  them, 
falling  himself  desperately  forward.  They  both 
came  crashing  to  the  ground.  It  was  a  mag- 


GOD  265 

nificent  collar,  and  Olva,  as  he  fell,  heard,  as 
though  it  were  miles  away,  a  rising  shout,  saw  the 
sky  bend  down  to  him,  saw  the  ball  as  it  was 
jerked  up  rise  for  a  moment  into  the  air — was 
conscious  that  some  one  was  running. 


He  was  on  his  knees,  alone,  on  the  vast  field 
that  sloped  a  little  towards  the  horizon. 

Before  him  the  mountain  clouds  were  now  lit 
with  a  clear  silver  light  so  dazzling  that  his  eyes 
were  lowered. 

About  him  was  a  great  silence.  He  was 
himself  minute  in  size,  a  tiny,  tiny  bending 
figure. 

Many  years  passed. 

A  great  glory  caught  the  colour  from  the  sky 
and  earth  and  held  it  like  a  veil  before  the 
cloud. 

In  a  voice  of  the  most  radiant  happiness  Olva 
cried — 

"  I  have  fled — I  am  caught — I  am  held  .  ,  . 
Lord,  I  submit." 

And  for  the  second  time  he  heard  God's  voice — 

"  My  Son  ...  My  Son." 


266   THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

He  felt  a  touch — very  gentle  and  tender— on 

his  shoulder. 

6 

Many  years  had  passed.  He  opened  his  eyes 
and  saw  the  ball  that  had  been  rising,  many  years 
ago,  now  falling. 

The  man  whom  he  had  collared  was  climbing 
to  his  feet ;  behind  them  men  were  bending 
down  for  a  "  scrum."  The  shout  that  he  had 
heard  when  he  had  fallen  was  still  lingering  in 
the  air. 

And  yet  many  years  had  passed. 

"  Hope  you're  not  hurt,"  the  Dublin  man  said. 
"  Came  down  hard." 

"  No  thanks,  it's  all  right." 

Olva  got  on  to  his  feet.  Some  one  cried, "  Well 
collared,  Dune." 

He  ran  back  to  his  place.  Now  there  was  no 
hesitation  or  confusion.  A  vigour  like  wine 
filled  his  body.  The  Cambridge  men  now  were 
pressing ;  the  ball  was  flung  back  to  Cardillac, 
who  threw  to  Olva.  The  Dublin  line  was  only 
a  few  yards  away  and  Olva  was  over.  Lawrence 
kicked  a  goal  and  Cambridge  had  now  five  points 
to  the  Dublin  ten. 


GOD  267 

Cambridge  now  awoke  to  its  responsibilities. 
The  Dublin  men  seemed  to  be  flagging  a  little, 
and  Tester  and  Buchan,  having  apparently 
decided  that  Olva  was  himself  again,  played 
their  accustomed  game. 

But  what  had  happened  to  Dune  f  There  he 
had  been,  his  old  casual  superior  self  during  the 
first  half  of  the  game.  Now  he  was  that  inspired 
player  that  the  Harlequin  match  had  once 
revealed  him.  Whymper  had  spoken  to  him 
at  half-time.  That  was  what  it  was — Whymper 
had  roused  him. 

For  he  was  amazing.  He  was  everywhere. 
Even  when  he  had  been  collared,  he  was  sud- 
denly up,  had  raced  after  the  three-quarter 
line,  caught  them  up  and  was  in  the  movement 
again.  Five  times  the  Cambridge  Threes  were 
going,  were  half-way  down  the  field,  and  were 
checked  by  the  wonderful  Dublin  defence. 
Again  and  again  Cambridge  pressed.  There 
were  only  ten  minutes  left  for  play  and  Cambridge 
were  still  five  points  behind. 

Somebody  standing  in  the  crowd  said,  "  By 
Jove,  Dune  seems  to  be  enjoying  it.  I  never 
gaw  any  one  look  as  happy." 

Some  one  else  said,  "  Dune's  possessed  by  a 


268   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

devil  or  something.  I  never  saw  anything 
like  that  pace.  He  doesn't  seem  to  be  watching 
the  game  at  all,  though." 

Some  one  said — "  There's  going  to  be  a  tre- 
mendous snow-storm  in  a  minute.  Look  at 
those  white  clouds." 

Then,  when  there  were  five  minutes  more  to 
play,  there  was  a  forward  rush  over  the  Dublin 
line — a  Cambridge  man,  struggling  at  the 
bottom  of  a  heap  of  legs  and  arms,  touched 
down.  A  Dublin  appeal  was  made  for  "  Carried 
over  "  but,' — no — "  Try  for  Cambridge." 

A  deafening  shout  from  behind  the  ropes, 
then  a  breathless  pause  whilst  Lawrence  stepped 
back  to  take  the  kick,  then  a  shattering  roar  as 
the  ball  sailed  between  the  posts. 

Ten  points  all  and  three  minutes  left  to 
play. 

They  were  back  to  the  centre,  the  Dublin 
men  had  kicked,  Tester  had  gathered  and  re- 
turned to  touch.  There  was  a  line  out,  a  Cam- 
bridge man  had  the  ball  and  fell,  Cambridge 
dribbled  past  the  ball  to  the  half,  the  ball  was 
in  Cardillac's  hands. 

Let  this  be  ever  to  Cardillac's  honour  I  Fame 
of  a  lifetime  might  have  been  his,  the  way  was 


GOD  269 

almost  clear  before  him — lie  passed  back  to 
Olva.  The  moment  had  come.  The  crowd  fell 
first  into  a  breathless  silence,  then  screamed 
with  excitement — 

"  Dune's  got  it.    He's  off !  " 

He  had  a  crowd  of  men  upon  him.  Handing 
off,  bending,  doubling,  almost  down,  slipping 
and  then  up  again — he  was  through  them. 

The  great  clouds  were  gathering  the  grey  sky 
into  their  white  arms.  Mr.  Gregg,  at  the  back 
of  the  stand,  forgetting  for  once  decorum,  white 
and  trembling,  was  hoarse  with  shouting. 

Olva's  body  seemed  so  tiny  on  that  vast 
field — two  Dublin  three-quarters  came  for  him. 
He  appeared  to  run  straight  into  the  arms  of 
both  of  them  and  then  was  through  them.  They 
started  after  him — one  man  was  running  across 
field  to  catch  him.  It  was  a  race.  Now  there 
fell  silence  as  the  three  men  tore  after  the  flying 
figure.  Surely  never,  in  the  annals  of  Bugby 
football,  had  any  one  run  as  Olva  ran  then. 
Only  now  the  Dublin  back,  and  he,  missing  the 
apparent  swerve  to  the  right,  clutched  desper- 
ately at  Olva's  back,  caught  the  buckle  of  his 
"  shorts  "  and  stood  with  the  thing  torn  off  in  his 
hand. 


270  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

He  turned  to  pursue,  but  it  was  too  late.  Olva 
had  touched  down  behind  the  posts. 

As  he  started  back  with  the  ball  the  wide 
world  seemed  to  be  crying  and  shouting,  waving 
and  screaming. 

Against  the  dull  grey  sky  far  away  an  ancient 
cabman,  standing  on  the  top  of  his  hansom, 
flourished  his  whip. 

But  as  he  stood  there  the  shouting  died — the 
crowds  faded — alone  there  on  the  brown  field 
with  the  white  high  clouds  above  him,  Olva 
was  conscious,  only,  of  the  gentle  touch  of  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 


CHAPTEB    XV 

PEELTJDE  TO  A  JOURNEY 
1 

HE  had  a  bath,  changed  his  clothes,  and 
sitting  before  his  fire  waited. 

As  he  looked  around  his  room  he  knew  that 
he  was  leaving  it  for  ever.  Whatever  might  be 
the  issue  of  his  conversation  with  Eupert,  he 
knew  that  that  at  any  rate  was  true ;  he  would 
never  return  here  again — or  he  would  not 
return  until  he  had  worked  out  his  duty. 
He  looked  about  him  regretfully  ;  he  had  grown 
very  fond  of  that  room  and  the  things  in  it — 
the  shape  of  it,  the  books,  the  blue  bowls,  the 
bright  fire,  "  Aegidius "  (but  he  would  take" 
"  Aegidius  "  with  him).  He  looked  last  at  the 
photograph  of  his  father,  the  rocky  eyes,  the 
flowing  beard,  the  massive  shoulders. 

It  was  back  to  him  that  he  was  going,  and  he 
would  walk  all  the  way.  Walking  alone  he  would 

listen,  he  would  watch,  he  would  wait,  and  then, 

an 


272  THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

in  that  great  silence,  he  would  be  told  what 
he  must  do. 

In  the  pleasant  crackle  of  the  fire,  in  the 
shaded  light  of  the  lamp,  in  the  starlit  silence 
of  the  College  Courts,  there  seemed  such  safety ; 
in  his  heart  there  was  such  happiness ;  in  that 
moment  of  waiting  for  Eupert  Craven  to  come 
he  learnt  once  and  for  all  that,  in  very  truth, 
there  is  no  gift,  no  reward,  no  joy  that  can 
equal  "  the  Peace  of  God,"  nor  is  there  any 
temporal  danger,  disease  or  agony  that  can 
threaten  its  power. 

As  the  last  notes  of  the  clock  in  Outer  Court 
striking  five  died  away  Eupert  Craven  came  in. 
If  he  had  seemed  tired  and  worn-out  before 
now  the  overwhelming  impression  that  he  gave 
was  of  an  unhappiness  from  which  he  seemed  to 
have  no  outlet.  He  was  young  enough  to  be 
tormented  by  the  determination  to  do  the 
right  thing ;  he  was  young  enough  to  give  his 
whole  devotion  to  his  sister ;  he  was  young 
enough  to  admire,  against  all  determination, 
Olva's  presence  and  prowess  and  silence ;  he 
was  young  enough  to  be  haunted,  night  and 
day,  by  the  terrors  of  his  imagination ;  he 
iraa  young  enough  to  be  amazed  at  finding  the 


PBELUDE   TO  A  JOUBNEY        273 

world  a  place  of  Life  and  Death  ;  he  was  young 
enough  finally  to  be  staggered  that  he  personally 
should  be  drawn  into  the  struggle. 

But  now,  just  now,  as  he  stood  in  the  door- 
way, he  was  simply  tired,  tired  out.  He  pulled 
himself  together  with  the  obvious  intention  of 
being  cold  and  fierce  and  judicial.  He  had 
cornered  Dune  at  last,  he  had  driven  him  to 
confession,  he  was  a  fine  fellow,  a  kind  of  Fate, 
the  Supreme  Judge  .  .  .  this  is  what  he  doubt* 
less  desired  to  feel ;  but  he  wished  that  Dune  had 
not  played  so  wonderful  a  game  that  afternoon, 
that  Dune  did  not  now — at  this  moment  of  com- 
plete disaster  and  ruin — look  so  strangely  happy, 
that  he  were  himself  not  so  utterly  wretched  and 
conscious  of  his  own  failure  to  do  anything  as  it 
ought  to  be  done.  He  did  his  best ;  he  refused 
to  sit  down,  he  remained  as  still  as  possible, 
he  looked  over  Dune's  head  in  order  to  avoid 
those  shining  eyes. 

The  eyes  caught  him. 

"  Craven,  why  have  you  been  badgering  the 
wretched  Bunning  t  " 

"I  thought  you  asked  me  to  come  here  to 
tell  me  something — I  didn't  come  to  answer 
questions." 


274  THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

"  We'll  come  to  my  part  of  it  in  a  moment 
But  I  think  it's  only  fair  to  answer  me  first." 

"  What  have  you  got  to  do  with  Bunning  t  " 

"  That's  not,  immediately,  the  point.  The 
thing  I  want  to  know  is,  why  you  should  have 
chosen,  during  the  last  week  to  go  and  torment 
the  hapless  Bunning  until  you've  all  but  driven 
Mm  out  of  his  wits." 

"  I  don't  see  what  it's  got  to  do  with  yon." 

"  It's  got  this  much  to  do  with  me — that  he 
came  to  me  this  morning  with  a  story  so  absurd 
that  it  proves  that  he  can't  be  altogether  right 
in  his  head.  He  told  me  that  he  had  confided 
this  absurd  story  to  you." 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  I  don't  suppose,"  Olva  went  on  at  last 
gently,  "  that  we've  either  of  us  got  very  much 
time,  and  there's  a  great  deal  to  be  done,  so 
let's  go  straight  to  it.  Bunning  told  me  this 
morning  that  he  declared  to  you  yesterday  that 
he — of  all  people  in  the  world — had  murdered 
Carfax." 

"  Yes,"  at  last  Craven  sullenly  muttered, "  he 
told  me  that." 

"  And  of  course  you  didn't  believe  it  t  " 

"  I  didn't  believe  that  he'd  done  it — no.    But 


PEELUDE  TO  A  JOUBNBY        275 

he  knows  who  did  do  it.  He's  got  all  the 
details.  Some  one  has  told  him." 

Craven  was  trembling.  Olva  pushed  a  chair 
towards  him. 

"  Look  here,  you'd  better  sit  down." 

Craven  sat  down. 

"  I  know  that  some  one  told  him,"  Olva  said 
quietly,  "  because  I  told  him." 

"  Then  you  know  who "  Craven's  voice 

was  a  whisper. 

"  I  know,"  said  Olva,  "  because  it  was  I  who 
killed  Carfax." 

Craven  took  it — the  moment  for  which  he'd 
been  waiting  so  long — in  the  most  amazing  way. 

"  Oh  !  "  he  cried,  like  a  child  who  has  cut  its 
finger.  "  Oh  !  I  wish  you  hadn't !  "  There 
was  the  whole  of  Craven's  young  struggle  with 
an  astounding  world  in  that  cry. 

Then,  after  that,  there  was  a  long  silence,  and 
had  some  one  come  into  the  room  he  would  have 
looked  at  the  two  men  before  the  fire  and  have 
supposed  that  they  were  gently  and  comfortably 
falling  off  to  sleep. 

Olva  at  last  said,  "  Of  course  I  know  that  you 
have  suspected  me  for  a  long  time.  Everything 
played  into  your  hands.  I  have  done  my  very 


276  THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

utmost  to  prevent  your  having  positive  proof  of 
the  thing,  but  that  part  of  the  business  is  now 
done  with.  You  know,  and  you  can  do  what 
you  please  with  the  knowledge." 

But,  now  that  the  moment  had  come,  Rupert 
Craven  could  do  nothing  with  it. 

"  I  don't  want  to  do  anything,"  he  muttered  at 
last.  "  Pm  not  up  to  doing  anything.  I  don't 
understand  it.  I'm  not  the  sort  of  fellow  who 
ought  to  be  in  this  kind  of  thing  at  all." 

That  was  how  he  now  saw  it,  as  an  unfair 
advantage  that  had  been  taken  of  him.  This 
point  of  view  changed  his  position  to  the  extent 
of  his  now  almost  appealing  to  Olva  to  help  him 
out  of  it. 

"  Your  telling  me  like  that  has  made  it  all 
ao  difficult.  I  feel  now  suddenly  as  though  I 
hated  Carfax  and  hadn't  the  least  objection 
to  somebody  doing  for  him.  And  that's  all 
wrong — murder's  an  awful  thing — one  ought  to 
feel  bad  about  it."  Then  finally,  with  the  cry 
of  a  child  in  the  dark,  "  But  this  isn't  life,  it 
never  has  been  life  since  that  day  I  heard  of 
Carfax  being  killed.  It's  the  sort  of  thing — 
it's  been  for  weeks  the  sort  of  thing — that  you 
read  of  in  books  or  see  at  the  Adelphi ;  and 


PBELUDB  TO  A  JOUBBTEY        277 

I'm  not  that  kind  of  fellow.  I  tell  you  Fve  been 
mad  all  this  last  month,  getting  it  on  the  brain, 
seeing  things  night  and  day.  My  one  idea 
was  to  make  you  own  up  to  it,  but  I  never 
thought  of  what  was  going  to  happen  when  you 
did." 

Olva  let  him  work  it  out. 

"  Of  course  I  never  thought  of  you  for  an 
instant  as  the  man  until  that  afternoon  when  you 
talked  in  your  sleep.  Then  I  began  to  think 
and  I  remembered  what  Carfax  had  said  about 
your  hating  him.  Then  I  went  with  your  dog 
for  a  walk  and  we  found  your  matchbox.  After 
that  I  noticed  all  sorts  of  things  and,  at  the  same 
time,  I  saw  that  you  were  in  love  with  Margaret. 
That  made  me  mad.  My  sister  is  everything 
in  the  world  to  me,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that — 
she  should  marry  a  fellow  who  .  .  .  without 
knowing!  I  began  to  be  ill  with  it  and  yet  I 
hadn't  any  real  reasons  to  bring  forward.  You 
wanted  me  to  show  my  cards  but  I  wouldn't. 
Sometimes  I  thought  I  really  was  going  mad. 
Then  two  things  made  me  desperate.  I  saw 
that  you  had  some  secret  understanding  with  my 
mother  and  I  saw  that  my  sister  loved  you. 
We'd  always  been  tremendous  pals — we  three, 


278  THE  PKELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

and  it  seemed  as  though  every  one  were  siding 
against  me.  I  saw  Margaret  marrying  you  and 
mother  letting  her — although  she  knew  ...  it 
was  awful — Hell !  " 

He  pressed  his  hands  together,  his  voice  shook, 
"  I'd  never  been  in  anything  before — no  kind 
of  trouble — and  now  it  seemed  to  put  me  right 
on  one  side.  I  couldn't  see  straight.  One 
moment  I  hated  you,  then  I  admired  you,  and 
the  oddest  thing  of  all  was  that  I  didn't  think 
about  the  actual  thing — your  having  killed 
Carfax — at  all ;  everything  else  was  so  much 
more  important.  I  just  wanted  to  be  sure 
that  you'd  done  it  and  then — for  you  to  go 
away  and  never  see  any  of  us  again." 

Olva  smiled. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

"  But  it  wasn't  until  the  6th  of  November — 
the  *  rag  '  night — that  I  was  quite  sure.  I  knew 
then,  when  I  saw  you  hitting  that  fellow,  that 
you'd  killed  Carfax.  But,  of  course,  that 
wasn't  proof.  Then  I  noticed  Bunning.  I  saw 
that  he  was  always  with  you,  and  of  course  it 
was  an  odd  sort  of  friendship  for  you  to  have ; 
I  could  see,  too,  that  he'd  got  something  on  his 
mind.  I  went  for  him — it  was  all  easy  enough 


PEELUDE   TO  A  JOUENEY        279 

— and  at  last  lie  broke  down.  Then  I'd  got 
you " 

"  You've  got  me,"  said  Olva. 

Eupert  looked  him,  slowly,  in  the  face. 
"  You're  wonderful !  "  Then  he  added,  almost 
wistfully,  "  If  Margaret  hadn't  loved  you  it 
wouldn't  really  any  of  it  have  mattered.  I 
suppose  that's  very  immoral,  but  that's  what 
it  comes  to.  Margaret's  everything  in  the 
world  to  me  and  you  must  tell  her." 

"  Of  course  I  will  tell  her,"  Olva  said.  "  That's 
what  I  ought  to  have  done  from  the  beginning. 
That's  what  I  was  meant  to  do.  But  I  had  to 
be  driven  to  it.  What  will  you  do,  Craven,  if 
it  doesn't  matter  to  her — if  she  doesn't  care 
whether  I  killed  Carfax  or  no  t  " 

"  At  least  you'll  have  told  her,"  the  boy 
replied  firmly.  "  At  least  she'll  know.  Then 
it's  for  her  to  decide.  She'll  do  the  right  thing," 
he  ended  proudly. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  that  is  T  "  Olva 
asked  him. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered.  "  This  seems 
to  have  altered  everything.  I  ought  now  to  be 
hating  you — I  don't.  I  ought  to  shudder  at  the 
sight  of  you — I  don't.  The  Carfax  business 


280   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

seems  to  have  slipped  right  back,  to  be  ages  ago, 
not  to  matter.  All  I  suppose  I  wanted  was  to  be 
reassured  about  you — if  Margaret  loved  you. 
And  now  I  am  reassured.  I  believe  you  know 
what  to  do." 

"  Yes,  I  know  what  to  do,"  said  Olva.  '*  I'm 
going  away  to-morrow  for  a  long  time.  I  shall 
always  love  Margaret — there  can  never  be  any 
one  else — but  I  shall  not  marry  her  unless  I 
can  come  back  cleared." 

"  And  who — what — can  clear  you  T  " 

"  Ah  !  who  knows  !  There'll  be  something  for 
me  to  do,  I  expect.  ...  I  will  see  Margaret 
to-morrow — and  say  good-bye." 

Craven's  face  was  white,  the  eyelids  had  almost 
closed,  his  head  hung  forward  as  though  it  were 
too  heavy  to  support. 

"  I'm  just  about  done,"  he  murmured,  "  just 
about  done.  It's  been  all  a  beastly  dream  .  .  . 
and  now  you're  all  right — you  and  Margaret — I 

haven't  got  to  bother  about  her  any "  and 

suddenly  he  was  asleep. 

2 

After  hall  Olva  went  to  Cardillac's  room  for 
the  last  time.  No  one  there  knew  that  it  was 


PEELUDE   TO  A  JOUBSTEY         281 

for  the  last  time.  It  seemed  to  them  all  that  he 
was  just  beginning  to  come  out,  to  be  one  of 
them.  The  football  match  of  that  afternoon 
had  been  wonderful  enough  for  anything,  and  the 
excitement  of  it  lingered  still  about  Cardillac's 
rooms,  thick  now  with  tobacco-smoke,  crowded 
with  men,  noisy  with  laughter.  The  air  was  so 
thick  with  smoke,  the  lights  so  dim,  the  voices  so 
many,  that  Olva  finding  a  corner  near  an  open 
window  slipped,  it  might  almost  seem,  from  the 
world.  Outside  the  snow,  threatening  all  day, 
now  fell  heavily ;  the  old  Court  took  it  with  a 
gentleness  that  showed  that  the  snow  was  meant 
for  it,  and  the  snow  covered  the  grey  roofs  and 
the  smooth  grass  with  a  satisfaction  that  could 
almost  be  heard,  so  deep  was  it.  Just  this 
little  window-pane  between  the  world  that 
Olva  was  leaving  and  the  world  to  which  he  was 
going ! 

He  caught  fragments  :  "  Just  that  last  run — 
gorgeous — but  old  Snodky  says  that  that  horse 
of  his " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you  take  it  from  me — 
they  can't  get  on  without  it.  ...  Now  a  girl 
I  know " 

«'  They  fairly  fell  upon  one  another's  necks  and 


282   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUBE 

hugged.    Talk  of  the  fatted  calf!     Now  if  I'd 
asked  the  governor  -  " 

Around  him  there  came,  with  a  poignancy,  a 
beauty,  that,  now  that  he  was  to  lose  it  all, 
was  like  a  wound,  the  wonder  of  this  Cambridge. 
Then  he  had  it,  the  marvellous  moment  !  On  the 
other  side  of  the  window  the  still  court,  a  few 
twinkling  lights,  the  powdering  snow  —  and  here 
the  vitality,  the  energy,  the  glowing  sense  of  two 
thousand  souls  marching  together  upon  Life  and 
seizing  it,  with  a  shout,  lifting  it,  stepping  out 
with  it  as  though  it  were  one  long  glory  !  After- 
wards what  matter  ?  There  had  been  the  mo- 
ment, never  to  be  forgotten  !  Cambridge,  the 
beautiful  threshold  ! 

For  an  instant  the  sense  of  his  own  forthcoming  \ 
journey  —  away  from  life,  as  it  seemed  to  him  — 
caught  Tn'm  as  he  sat  there.     "  What  will  God    / 


do  with  me  t  " 

From  the  outer  world  through  the  whispering 
snow,  he  caught  the  echo  of  the  Voice  —  "My 
Son  ...  My  Son." 

Soon  he  heard  Lawrence's  tremendous  laugh  — 
"  Where's  Dune  t  Is  he  here  t  " 

Lawrence  found  him  and  sat  down  beside  him. 

"  By  Jupiter,  old  man,  I  was  frightened  for 


PRELUDE  TO  A  JOURNEY        283 

you  this  afternoon.  Until  half-time  you  were 
drugged  or  something  and  there  was  I  prayin' 
to  my  Druids  all  I  was  worth  to  put  back  into 
you.  And,  my  word,  they  did  it !  Talk  about 
that  second  half — never  saw  anythin'  like  it ! 
Have  a  drink,  old  man !  " 

"No  thanks.  Yes,  I  didn't  seem  to  get  on 
to  it  at  all  at  first." 

"Well,  you're  fixed  for  Queen's  Club — just  heard 
— got  your  Blue  all  right.  You  and  Whymper 
ought  to  do  fine  things  between  you,  although 
stickin'  two  individualists  together  on  the  same 
wing  like  that  ain't  exactly  my  idea,  and  they 
don't  as  a  rule  settle  the  team  as  early  as  this — 
Lawrence  put  a  large  hand  on  Olva's  knee. 
"  Goin'  home  for  Christmas  t  "  he  said. 

"  I  expect  so." 

"  Well,  yer  see — I've  got  a  sort  of  idea.  I 
wish  this  vac,  you'd  come  an'  stay  with  us  for  a 
bit.  Good  old  sorts,  my  people.  Governor  quite 
a  brainy  man — and  you  could  talk,  you  two. 
There'll  be  lots  of  people  tumblin'  about  the 
place — lots  goin'  on,  and  the  governor'!!  like 
to  have  a  sensible  feller  once  in  a  way  .  .  .  and 
I'd  like  it  too,"  he  ended  at  the  bottom  of  his 
gruff  voice. 


284   THE  PBBLUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

"  Well,  you  see,"  Olva  explained,  "  it  depends 
a  bit  on  my  own  father.  He's  all  alone  up 
there  at  our  place,  and  I  like  to  be  with  him 
as  much  as  possible."  Olva  looked  through  the 
window  at  the  snow,  grey  against  the  sky,  white 
against  the  college  walls.  "  I  don't  quite 
know  where  I  shall  be — I  think  you  must  let  me 
write  to  you." 

"  Oh !  that's  all  right,"  said  Lawrence.  "  I 
want  you  to  come  along  some  time.  You'd 
like  the  governor — and  if  you  don't  mind 
listening  to  an  ass  like  me — well,  I'd  take  it  as 
an  honour  if  you'd  talk  to  me  a  bit." 

As  Olva  looked  Lawrence  in  the  eyes  he  knew 
that  it  would  be  well  with  him  if,  in  his  journey 
through  the  world,  he  met  again  so  good  a  soul. 
Cardillac  joined  them  and  they  all  talked  for  a 
little.  Then  Olva  said  good-night. 

He  turned  for  a  moment  at  the  door  and 
looked  back.  Some  one  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room  was  singing  "  Egypt  "  to  a  cracked  piano. 
A  babel  of  laughter,  of  chatter,  every  now  and 
again  men  tumbled  against  one  another,  like 
cubs  in  a  cave,  and  rolled  upon  the  floor.  Law- 
rence, his  feet  planted  wide  apart,  was  standing 
In  the  middle  of  an  admiring  circle,  explaining 
something  very  slowly. 


PEELUDE  TO  A  JOURNEY        285 

"  If  the  old  scrum-half,"  he  was  saying, "  only 
stood  back  enough " 

What  a  splendid  lot  they  were !  What  a 
life  it  was  !  So  much  joy  in  the  heart  of  so  much 
beauty !  .  .  .  Cambridge ! 

As  he  crossed  the  white  court  the  strains  of 
"  Egypt "  came,  like  a  farewell,  through  the 
tumbling  snow. 

There  was  still  a  thing  that  he  must  do.  He 
went  to  say  good-bye  to  Bunning.  He  thought 
with  surprise  as  he  climbed  the  stairs  that  this 
was  the  first  time  that  he'd  ever  been  to  Bunning's 
room.  It  had  always  been  Bunning  who  had 
come  to  him.  He  would  always  see  that  picture 
— Bunning  standing,  clumsily,  awkwardly  in 
the  doorway.  Poor  Bunning  ! 

When  Olva  came  in  he  was  sitting  in  a  very 
old  armchair,  staring  into  the  fire,  his  hair 
on  end  and  his  tie  above  his  collar.  Olva 
watched  him  for  a  moment,  the  face,  the  body, 
everything  about  him  utterly  dejected:  the 
sound  of  Olva's  entrance  did  not  at  once  rouse 
him.  When  at  last  he  saw  who  it  was  he  started 
up,  his  face  flushing  crimson. 

"  You  !  "  he  cried. 

"  Yes,''  said  Olva,  "  I've  come  to  tell  von  that 
everything's  all  right." 


286   THE  PEELTJDE  TO  ADVENTUEB 

For  a  moment  light  touched  Bunning's  eyes, 
then  slowly  he  shook  his  head. 

"  Things  can't  be  all  right.  It's  gone  much 
too  far." 

"  My  dear  Banning,  I've  seen  Craven.  I've 
told  him.  I  assure  you  that  all  is  well." 

"  You  told  him  T  " 

"  Everything.  That  I  killed  Carfax — he  knew 
it,  of  course,  long  ago.  He  went  fast  asleep  at 
the  end  of  it." 

Bunning  shook  his  head  again,  wearily. 
"  It's  all  no  good.  You're  saying  these  things  to 
comfort  me.  Even  if  Craven  didn't  do  anything 
he  wouldn't  let  you  marry  his  sister  now.  That's 
more  important  than  being  hung." 

"  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you,"  Olva  said  slowly, 
"  I  should  have  gone  on  wriggling.  You've 
made  me  come  out  into  the  open.  'I'm 
going  to  tell  Miss  Craven  everything  to-mor- 
row." 

"  What  will  she  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  She'll  do  the  right  thing. 
After  that  I'm  going  away." 

"Going  away?" 

"  Yes.  I  want  to  think  about  things.  I've 
never  tnought  about  anything  except  myself. 


PEELUDE  TO  A  JOTJENEY        287 

I'm  going  to  tramp  it  home,  and  after  that  I 
shall  find  out  what  I'm  going  to  do." 

"  And  Miss  Craven  T  " 

"  I  shall  come  back  to  her  one  day — when 
I'm  fit  for  it — or  rather,  if  I'm  fit  for  it.  But 
that's  enough  about  myself.  I  only  wanted  to 
tell  you,  Bunning,  before  I  go  that  I  shall  never 
forget  your  telling  Craven.  You're  lucky  to 
have  been  able  to  do  so  fine  a  thing.  We  shall 
meet  again  later  on — I'll  see  to  that." 

Bunning,  his  whole  body  strung  to  a  desperate 
appeal,  caught  Olva's  hand.  "  Take  me  with 
you,  Dune.  Take  me  with  you.  I'll  be  your 
servant — anything  you  like.  I'll  do  anything 
if  you'll  let  me  come.  I  won't  be  a  nuisance — 
I'll  never  talk  if  you  don't  want  me  to — I'll  do 
everything  you  tell  me — only  let  me  come. 
You're  the  only  person  who's  ever  shown  me 
what  I  might  do.  I  might  be  of  use  if  I  were 
with  you — otherwise " 

"  Eot,  Bunning.  You've  got  plenty  to  do 
here.  I'm  no  good  yet  for  anybody.  One  day 
pernaps  we'll  meet  again.  I'll  write  to  you.  I 
promise  not  to  forget  you.  How  could  I  T  and 
one  day  I'll  come  back " 

Bunning   moved   away,    his   head   hanging. 


288  THE  PEELUDB  TO  ADVE13TUEB 

"You  must  think  me  an  awful  fool — of  course 
you  do.  I  am,  I  suppose.  I'd  be  awful  to  be 
with  for  long  at  a  time — of  course  I  see  that. 
But  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  If  I  go  home 
and  tell  them  I'm  not  going  to  be  a  parson  it'll 
be  terrible.  They'll  all  be  at  me.  Not  directly. 
They  won't  say  anything,  but  they'll  have 
people  to  talk  to  me.  They'll  fill  the  house — 
they  won't  spare  any  pains.  And  then,  at  last, 
being  all  alone,  I  shall  give  in.  I  know  I  shall, 
I'm  not  clever  or  strong.  And  I  shall  be  or- 
dained— and  then  it'll  be  hell.  I  can  see  it  all. 
You  came  into  my  life  and  made  it  all  different, 
and  now  you're  going  out  of  it  again  and  it  will 
be  worse  than  ever " 

"I  won't  go  out  of  it,"  said  Olva.  "I'll 
write  if  you'd  like — and  perhaps  we'll  meet. 
I'll  be  always  your  friend.  And — look  here — 
I'll  tell  Margaret — Miss  Craven — about  you,  and 
she'll  ask  you  to  go  and  see  her,  and  if  you  two 
are  friends  it'll  be  a  kind  of  alliance  between  all 
of  us,  won't  it  ?  " 

Bunning  was  happier — "  Oh,  but  she'll  think 
me  such  an  ass  !  " 

"Oh,  no  she  won't,  she's  much  too  clever. 
And,  Bunning,  don't  let  yourself  be  driveD  by 


PEELUDE   TO  A  JOUBNEY          289 

!  people.  Stick  to  the  thing  you  want  to  do — 
\  you'll  find  something  all  right.  Just  go  on  here 
and  wait  until  you're  shown.  Sit  with  your  ears 
open " 

Bunning  filled  his  mouth  with  toast.  "  If 
you'll  write  to  me  and  keep  up  with  me  I'D 
do  anything." 

"  And  one  thing — Don't  teD  any  one  I'm  going. 
I  shall  just  slip  out  of  college  early  the  day 
after  to-morrow.  I  don't  want  any  one  to  know. 
It's  nobody's  affair  but  mine." 

Then  he  held  out  his  hand — "  Good-bye, 
Bunning,  old  man." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Bunning. 

When  Olva  had  gone  he  sat  down  by  the  fire 
again,  staring. 

Some  hours  afterwards  he  spoke,  suddenly, 
aloud :  "I  can  stand  the  lot  of  them  now." 

Then  he  went  to  bed. 


OHAPTEB    XVI 

OLVA  AND  MARGARET 
1 

ON  the  next  evening  the  sun  set  with  great 
splendour.     The    frost    had    come    and 
hardened  the  snow  and  all  day  the  sky  had  been 
a  pale  frozen  blue,  only  on  the  horizon  fading 
into  crocus  yellow. 

The  sun  was  just  vanishing  behind  the  grey 
roofs  when  Olva  went  to  Eocket  Eoad.  All  day 
he  had  been  very  busy  destroying  old  letters  and 
papers  and  seeing  to  everything  so  that  he 
should  leave  no  untidiness  nor  carelessness 
behind  him,  Now  it  was  all  over.  To-morrow 
morning,  with  enough  money  but  not  very  much, 
and  with  an  old  rucksack  that  he  had  once  had 
on  a  walking  tour,  he  would  set  out.  He  did  not 
question  this  decision — he  knew  that  it  was  what 
he  was  intended  to  do — but  it  was  the  way 
that  Margaret  would  take  his  confession  that 
would  make  that  journey  hard  or  easy. 

290 


OLVA  AND  MAEGAEET  291 

He  did  not  know — that  was  the  surprising 
thing — how  she  would  take  it.  He  knew  her  so 
little.  He  only  knew  that  he  loved  her  and 
that  she  would  do,  without  flinching,  the  thing 
that  she  felt  was  right.  Oh !  but  it  would  be 
difficult ! 

The  house,  the  laurelled  drive,  the  little  road, 
the  distant  moor  and  wood — these  things  had 
to-night  a  gentle  air.  Over  the  moor  the  setting 
sun  flung  a  red  flame ;  the  woods  burned 
black ;  the  laurels  were  heavy  with  snow 
and  a  robin  hopped  down  the  drive  as  Olva 


He  found  Margaret  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
here,  too,  he  fancied  that  there  was  more  light 
and  air  than  on  other  days. 

When  the  old  woman  had  left  the  room  he 
suddenly  caught  Margaret  to  him  and  kissed  her 
as  though  he  would  never  let  her  go.  She  clung 
to  him  with  her  hands.  Then  he  stood  gravely 
away  from  her. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  that  is  the  last  time  that 
I  may  kiss  you  before  I  have  told  you  what  it  is 
that  I  have  come  here  to  say.  But  first  may  I 
go  up  to  your  mother  for  a  moment  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Margaret  said,  "  if  you  will  not  be 


292   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

very  long.  I  do  not  think  that  I  can  have 
much  more  patience."  Then  she  added  more 
slowly,  gazing  into  his  face,  "  Eupert  said  last 
night  that  you  would  have  something  to  tell  me 
to-day.  I  have  been  waiting  all  day  for  you  to 
come.  But  Eupert  was  his  old  self  last  night, 
and  he  talked  to  mother  and  has  made  her  happy 
again.  Oh  !  I  think  that  everything  is  going  to 
be  right ! " 

"I  will  soon  come  down  to  you,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Craven's  long  dark  room  was  lit  by  the 
setting  sun ;  beyond  her  windows  the  straight 
white  fields  lifted  shining  splendour  to  the  stars 
already  twinkling  in  the  pale  sky.  Candles 
were  lit  on  a  little  black  table  by  her  sofa  and 
the  fire  was  red  deep  in  its  cavernous  setting. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  dim  room  facing 
the  setting  sun,  and  the  light  of  the  fire  played 
about  his  feet  and  the  pale  glow  that  stole  up  into 
the  evening  from  the  snowy  fields  touched  his  face. 

She  knew  as  she  looked  at  him  that  something 
had  given  him  great  peace. 

"  I've  come  to  say  good-bye,"  he  said.  Then 
he  sat  down  by  her  side. 

"  No,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  you  mustn't  go. 
We  want  you — Eupert  and  Margaret  and  I.  .  .  ." 


OLVA  AND  MAEGAEET  293 

Then  softly,  as  though  to  herself,  she  repeated 
the  words,  "  Eupert  and  Margaret  and  I." 

"Dear  Mrs.  Craven,  one  day  I  will  come 
back.  But  tell  me,  Eupert  spoke  to  you  last 
night  f  " 

"  Yes,  he  has  made  me  so  very  happy.  Last 
night  we  were  the  same  again  as  we  used  to  be, 
and  even,  I  think,  more  than  we  have  ever  been. 
Eupert  is  growing  up." 

"  Yes — Eupert  is  growing  up.  Did  he  tell 
you  why  he  had,  during  these  weeks,  been  so 
strange  and  unhappy  t  " 

"  No,  he  gave  me  no  real  explanation.  But  I 
think  that  it  was  the  terrible  death  of  his  friend 
Mr.  Carfax — I  think  that  that  had  preyed  upon 
his  mind." 

"  No,  Mrs.  Craven,  it  was  more  than  that.  He 
was  unhappy  because  he  knew  that  it  was  I  that 
had  killed  Carfax." 

He  saw  a  little  movement  pass  over  her — her 
hand  trembled  against  her  dress.  For  some  time 
they  sat  together  there  in  silence,  and  the  red 
sun  slipped  down  behind  the  fields ;  the  room 
was  suddenly  dark  except  for  the  yellow  pool  of 
light  that  the  candles  made  and  for  the  strange 
gleam  by  the  window  that  came  from  the  snow. 


294   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

At  last  she  said,  "  Now  I  understand — now  I 
understand." 

"  I  killed  him  in  anger — it  was  quite  fair.  No 
one  had  any  idea  except  Eupert,  but  everything 
helped  to  show  him  that  it  was  I.  When  he  saw 
that  I  loved  Margaret  he  was  very  unhappy.  He 
saw  that  we  had  some  kind  of  understanding 
together  and  he  thought  that  I  had  told  you  and 
that  you  sympathized  with  me.  I  am  going 
down  now  to  tell  Margaret." 

"  Poor,  poor  Olva.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
she  had  called  him  by  his  Christian  name.  She 
took  his  hand.  "  Both  of  us  together — the  same 
thing.  I  have  paid,  God  knows  I  have  paid,  and 
soon,  I  hope,  it  will  be  over.  But  your  life  is 
before  you." 

He  looked  out  at  the  evening  fields.  "  I'm 
going  down  now  to  tell  Margaret.  And  to- 
morrow I  shall  set  out.  I  will  not  come  back  to 
Margaret  until  I  know  that  I  am  cleared — but 
I  want  you,  while  I  am  away,  to  think  of  me  some- 
times and  to  talk  of  me  sometimes  to  Margaret. 
And  one  day,  perhaps,  I  shall  know  that  I  may 
come  back." 

She  put  her  thin  hands  about  his  head  and 
drew  it  down  to  her  and  kissed  him. 


OLVA  AND  MAEGABET  296 

"  There  will  never  be  a  time  when  you  are  not 
in  my  mind,"  she  said.  "  I  love  you  as  though 
you  were  my  own  son.  I  had  hoped  that  you 
would  be  here  often,  but  now  I  see  that  it  is 
right  for  you  to  go.  I  know  that  Margaret  will 
wait  for  you.  Meanwhile  an  old  woman  loves 
you." 

He  kissed  her  and  left  her. 

At  the  door  through  the  dark  room  he  heard 
her  thin  voice  :  "  May  God  bless  you  and  keep 
you." 

He  went  to  perform  his  hardest  task. 


It  was  the  harder  in  that  for  a  little  while  he 
seemed  to  be  left  absolutely  alone.  The  room 
was  dark  save  for  the  leaping  light  of  the  fire  in 
the  deep  stone  fireplace,  and  as  he  saw  Margaret 
standing  there  waiting  for  him,  desperately  coura- 
geous, he  only  knew  that  he  loved  her  so  badly 
that,  for  a  little  while,  he  could  only  stand  there 
staring  at  her,  twisting  his  hands  together,  speech- 
less. 

"  Well,"  at  last  she  said.  "  Come  and  sit 
down  and  tell  me  all  about  it."  But  her  voice 


296   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

trembled  a  little  and  her  eyes  were  wide,  fright- 
ened, begging  him  not  to  hurt  her. 

He  sat  down  near  her,  before  the  fire,  and  she 
instinctively,  as  though  she  knew  that  this  was  a 
very  tremendous  matter,  stood  away  from  him, 
her  hands  clasped  together  against  her  black 
dress. 

Suddenly  now,  before  he  spoke,  he  realized 
what  it  would  mean  to  him  if  she  could  not  for- 
give what  he  had  done.  He  had  imagined  it 
once  before — the  slow  withdrawal  of  her  eyes, 
the  gradual  tightening  of  the  lips,  the  little 
instinctive  movement  away  from  him. 

If  he  must  go  out  into  the  world,  having  lost 
her,  he  thought  that  he  could  never  endure,  God 
or  no  God,  the  long  dreary  years  in  front  of 
him. 

At  last  he  was  brave  :  "  Margaret — at  first  I 
want  you  to  know  that  I  love  you  with  all  my 
heart  and  soul  and  body  ;  that  nothing  that  can 
ever  happen  to  me  can  ever  alter  that  love — that 
I  am  yours,  entirely,  always.  And  then  I 
want  you  to  know  that  I  am  not  worthy  to  love 
you,  that  I  ought  never  to  have  asked  you  to 
love  me,  that  I  ought  to  have  gone  away  the 
first  time  that  I  saw  you." 


OLVA  AND  MAEGAEET  297 

She  made  a  little  loving,  protecting  move- 
ment towards  him  with  her  hands  and  then  let 
them  drop  against  her  dress  again. 

"  I  ought  never  to  have  loved  you — because 
-only  a  day  or  two  before  I  met  you — I  had  killed 
Carfax,  Eupert's  friend." 

The  words  as  they  fell  seemed  to  him  like  the 
screams  that  iron  bolts  give  as  a  gate  is  barred. 

He  whispered  slowly  the  words  again :  "  I 
killed  Carfax  " — and  then  he  covered  his  eyes 
with  his  hands  so  that  he  might  not  see  her 
face. 

The  silence  seemed  eternal — and  she  had  made 
no  movement.  To  fill  that  silence  he  went  on 
desperately — 

"  I  had  always  hated  him — there  were  many 
reasons — and  one  day  we  met  in  Sannet  Wood, 
quarrelled,  and  I  hit  him.  The  blow  killed  him. 
I  don't  think  I  meant  to  kill  him,  but  I  wasn't 
sorry  afterwards — I  have  never  felt  remorse  for 
that.  There  have  been  other  things.  .  .  . 

"  Soon  afterwards  I  met  you — I  loved  you  at 
once — you  know  that  I  did — and  I  could  not  tell 
you.  Oh !  I  tried — I  struggled,  pretty  poor 
struggling — but  I  could  not.  I  thought  that 
it  was  all  over,  that  he  was  dead  and  nobody 


298  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

knew.  But  God  was  wiser  than  that — Eupert 
knew.  He  suspected  and  then  he  grew  more 
sure,  and  at  last  he  was  quite  certain.  Yester- 
day, after  the  football  match,  I  told  him  and  I 
promised  him  that  I  would  tell  you  .  .  .  and  I 
have  told  you." 

Silence  again — and  then  suddenly  there  was 
movement,  and  there  were  arms  about  him  and 
a  voice  in  his  ear — "  Poor,  poor  Olva  .  .  .  dear 
Olva  .  .  .  how  terrible  it  must  have  been  !  " 

He  could  only  then  catch  her  and  hold  her,  and 
furiously  press  her  against  him.  "  Oh,  my  dear, 
my  dear — you  don't  mind  !  " 

They  stayed  together,  like  that,  for  a  long 
time. 

He  could  not  think  clearly,  but  in  the  dim  re- 
cesses of  his  mind  he  saw  that  they  had  all — Mrs. 
Craven,  Margaret,  Eupert — taken  it  in  the  same 
kind  of  way.  Could  it  be  that  Margaret  and 
,  Eupert  living,  although  unconsciously,  in  the 
shadow  all  their  lives  of  just  this  crime,  breathing 
the  air  of  it,  and  breathing  it  too  with  the  other 
air  of  love  and  affection — that  they  had  thus, 
all  unknowing,  been  quietly  prepared  ? 

Or  had  they,  each  of  them,  their  especial  reason 
for  excusing  it  t  Mrs.  Craven  from  her  great 


OLVA  AND   MAEGAEET  299 

/ 
knowledge,   Eupert   from  his  great  weariness, 

Margaret  from  her  great  love  ?  / 

At  last  Margaret  got  up  and  sat  down  in  a 
chair  away  from  him. 

"  Olva  dear,  you  ought  to  have  told  me.    If 

we  had  married  and  you  had  not  told  me " 

"  I  was  so  terribly  afraid  of  losing  you." 
"  But  it  gives  me  now,"  her  voice  was  almost 
triumphant,  "  something  to  share  with  you, 
something  to  help  you  in,  something  to  fight 
with  you.  Now  I  can  show  you  how  much  I 
love  you. 

"  How  could  you  have  supposed  that  I  would 
mind  ?  Do  you  think  that  a  woman,  if  she  loves 
a  man,  cares  for  anything  that  he  may  do  ?  If 
you  had  killed  a  hundred  men  in  Sannet  Wood 
I  would  have  helped  you  to  bury  them.  The 
thing  that  a  woman  demands  most  of  love  is 
that  she  may  prove  it.  I  know  that  murder 
has  a  dreadful  sound — but  to  meet  your  enemy 
face  to  face,  to  strike  him  down  because  you 

hated    him "     Her    voice    rose,    her    eyes 

flashed — she  raised  her  arms — "  You  must  pay 
for  it,  Olva — but  we  shall  pay  together." 

He  knew  now,  as  he  watched  her,  that  he  had  a 
harder  thing  to  do  than  he  had  believed  possible. 


300  THE  PBELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

"  No,"  he  said,  and  his  eyes  could  not  face 
hers,  "  we  can't  pay  together — I  must  go  alone." 

She  laughed  a  little.  "  How  can  you  go  alone 
if  we  are  together  f  " 

"  We  shall  not  be  together.  I  go  away,  alone, 
to-morrow." 

He  knew  that  her  eyes  were  then,  very  slowly, 
searching  his  face.  She  said,  gently,  after  a 
moment's  pause, "  Tell  me,  Olva,  what  you  mean. 
Of  course  we  are  going  together." 

"  Oh,  it  is  so  hard  for  me  !  "  He  was  fighting 
now  as  he  had  never  fought.  Why  not,  even  at 
this  last  moment,  in  spite  of  yesterday,  defy 
God  and  stay  with  her  and  keep  her  T  In  that 
moment  of  hesitation  he  suffered  so  that  the 
sweat  came  to  his  forehead  and  his  eyes  were 
filled  with  pain  and  then  were  suddenly  tired  and 
dull. 

But  he  came  out,  and  seemed  now  to  stand 
above  the  room  and  look  down  on  his  body  and 
her  body  and  to  be  filled  with  a  great  pity  for 
them  both. 

"  Margaret  dear,  it's  very  hard  for  me  to  tell 
yon.  Will  you  be  patient  with  me  and  let  me 
put  things  as  clearly  as  I  can — as  I  see  them  f  " 

She  burst  out,  "  Olva,  you  mustn't  leave  me, 


OLVA  AND  MABGABET  301 

-"    Then  she  used  all  her  strength  to  bring 


control.  Very  quietly  she  ended — "  Yes,  Olva, 
tell  me  everything." 

"  It  is  so  difficult  because  it  is  about  God,  and 
we  all  of  us  feel,  and  rightly  I  expect,  that  it  is 
priggish  to  talk  about  God  at  all.  And  then  I 
don't  know  whether  I  can  give  you  everything 
as  it  happened  because  it  was  all  so  unsubstantial 
and  at  the  end  of  it  any  one  might  say  '  But  this 
is  nothing — nothing  at  all.  You've  been  hysteri- 
cal, nervous — that's  the  meaning  of  it.  You've 
nothing  to  show.'  And  yet  if  all  the  world 
were  to  say  that  to  me  I  should  still  have  no 
doubt.  I  know,  as  I  know  that  we  are  sitting 
here,  as  I  know  that  I  love  you,  that  what  I 
say  is  true." 

She  brought  her  chair  close  to  him  and  then 
put  her  hand  in  his  and  waited. 

"  After  I  had  killed  Carfax — after  his  body 
had  fallen  and  the  wood  was  very  silent,  I  was 
suddenly  conscious  of  God.  I  can't  explain 
that  better.  I  can  only  say  that  I  knew  that 
some  one  had  watched  me,  I  knew  that  the 
world  would  never  be  the  same  place  again 
because  some  one  had  watched  me,  and  I  knew 
that  it  was  not  because  I  had  done  wrong,  but 


302  THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

because  I  had  put  myself  into  a  new  set  of  con- 
ditions that  life  would  be  different  now.  I 
knew  these  things,  and  I  went  back  to  College. 

"  I  had  never  thought  about  God  before,  never 
at  all.  I  had  been  entirely  heathen.  Now  I 
was  sure  of  His  existence  in  the  way  that  one  is 
sure  of  wood  when  one  touches  it  or  water  when 
one  drinks  it. 

"  But  I  did  not  know  at  all  what  kind  of  God 
He  was.  I  went  to  a  Bevival  meeting,  but  He 
was  not  there.  He  was  not  in  the  College 
Chapel.  He  was  not  in  any  forms  or  ceremonies 
that  I  could  discover.  He  might  choose  to 
appear  to  other  men  in  those  different  ways  but 
not  to  me.  Then  a  fellow,  Lawrence,  told  me 
about  some  old  worship — Druids  and  their  altars 
— but  He  was  not  there.  And  all  those  days  I 
was  increasingly  conscious  that  there  was  some 
one  who  would  not  let  me  alone.  It  fastened 
itself  in  my  mind  gradually  as  a  Pursuit,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  too  that,  as  the  days  passed,  I 
began  slowly  to  understand  the  nature  of  the 
Pursuer — that  He  was  kind  and  tender  but 
also  relentless,  remorseless.  I  was  frightened. 
I  flung  myself  into  College  things — games  and 
every  kind  of  noise  because  I  was  so  afraid  of 


t 


OLVA  AND   MAEGAEET  303 

silence.  And  all  the  time  some  one  urged  me  to 
obedience.  That  was  all  that  He  demanded, 
that  I  should  be  passive  and  obey  His  orders.  I 
would  have  given  in,  I  think,  very  soon,  but  I 
met  you." 

Her  hand  tightened  in  his  and  then,  because  he 
felt  that  her  body  was  trembling,  he  put  his  arm 
round  her  and  held  her. 

"  I  knew  then  when  I  loved  you  that  I  was 
being  urged,  by  this  God,  to  confess  everything 
to  you.  I  became  very  frightened ;  I  should 
have  trusted  you,  but  it  was  so  great  a  risk.  You 
were  all  that  I  had  and  if  I  lost  you  lile  would 
have  gone  too.  Those  aren't  mere  words.  .  .  . 
I  struggled,  I  tried  every  way  of  escape.  And 
then  everything  betrayed  me.  Eupert  began  to 
suspect,  then  to  be  sure.  Whether  I  flung  my- 
self into  everything,  or  hid  in  my  room  it  wa.s  the 
same — God  came  closer  and  closer.  It  was  a 
perfectly  real  experience  and  I  could  see  Him 
as  a  great  Shadow — not  unkind,  loving  me,  but 
relentless.  Then  the  day  came  that  I  proposed 
to  you  and  I  fainted.  I  knew  then  that  I  was 
not  to  be  allowed  so  easy  a  happiness.  Still  I 
struggled,  but  now  God  seemed  to  have  shut  off 
all  the  real  world  and  only  left  me  the  unreal 


304   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

one — and  I  began  to  be  afraid  that  I  was  going 
mad." 

She  suddenly  bent  down  and  kissed  him ;  she 
stayed  then,  until  he  had  finished,  with  her  head 
buried  in  his  coat. 

"  It  wasn't  any  good — I  knew  all  the  time 
that  it  could  only  end  one  way. 

"  Everything  betrayed  me,  every  one  left 
me.  I  thought  every  moment  that  Eupert 
would  tell  me.  Then,  one  night  when  I  was 
hardly  sane,  I  told  a  man,  Bunning — a  queer 
odd  creature  who  was  the  last  kind  of  person  to 
be  told.  He,  in  a  fit  of  mad  self-sacrifice,  told 
Eupert  that  he'd  killed  Carfax,  and  then  of 
course  it  was  all  over. 

"  I  suddenly  yielded.  It  was  as  though  God 
caught  me  and  held  me.  I  saw  Him,  I  heard 
Him — yesterday — in  the  middle  of  the  football. 
I  know  that  it  was  so.  After  that  there  could  be 
only  one  thing — Obedience.  I  knew  that  I  must 
tell  you.  I  have  told  you.  I  know,  too,  that  I 
must  go  out  into  the  world,  alone,  and  work  out 
my  duty  .  .  .  and  then,  oh !  then,  I  will  come 
back." 

When  he  had  finished,  on  his  shoulder  he 
seemed  to  feel  once  more  a  hand  gently  resting. 


OLVA  AND   MAEGAEET  305 

At  last  she  raised  her  head,  and  clutching  his 
hand  as  though  she  would  never  let  it  go, 
spoke : — 

"  Olva,  Olva,  I  don't  understand.  I  don't 
think  I  believe  im  any  God.  And,  dear,  see — 
it  is  all  so  natural.  Thinking  about  what  you 
had  done,  thinking  of  it  all  alone,  preyed  on  your 
nerves.  Because  Eupert  suspected  you  made  it 
worse.  You  imagined  things — everything.  That 
is  all — Olva,  really  that  is  all." 

"  Margaret,  don't  make  it  harder  for  both 
of  us.  I  must  go.  There  is  no  question.  I 
don't  suppose  that  any  one  can  see  any  one 
else's  spiritual  experiences — one  must  be  alone 
in  that.  Margaret  dear,  if  I  stayed  with  you 
now — if  we  married — the  Pursuit  would  begin 
again.  God  would  hold  me  at  last — and  then 
one  day  you  would  find  that  I  had  gone  away — I 
would  have  been  driven — there  would  be  terror 
for  both  of  us  then." 

She  slipped  on  to  her  knees  and  caught  his 
hands. 

"  This  is  all  unreal — utterly  unreal.  But  our 
love  for  each  other,  that  is  the  only  thing  that 
can  matter  fo:  either  of  us.  You  have  lived 
in  your  thoughts  these  weeks,  imagined  things, 


306   THE  PEELUDE  TO  ADVENTUEE 

but  think  of  what  you  do  if  you  leave  me.  Yon 
are  all  I  have — you  have  become  my  world — 
I  can't  live,  I  can't  live,  Olva,  without  you." 
"  I  must  go.  I  must  find  what  God  is." 
"  But  listen,  dear.  You  come  to  me  to  confess 
something.  You  find  that  what  you  have  done 
matters  nothing  to  me.  You  say  that  you  love 
me  more  than  ever,  and,  in  the  same  moment, 
that  you  are  going  to  leave  me.  Is  it  fair  to  me  T 
You  give  no  reason.  You  do  not  know  where 
you  are  going  or  what  you  intend  to  do.  You 
can  give  no  definite  explanation." 

"  There  is  no  explanation  except  that  by  what 
I  did  in  Sannet  Wood  that  afternoon  I  put  myself. 
/"  out  of  touch  with  human  society  until  I  had  done  \ 
V    something  for  human  society.     God    has  been  I 
I  telling  me  for  many  days  that  I  owe  a  debt.    I 
\have  tried  to  avoid  paying  that  debt.    I  tried 
I  to  escape  Him  because  I  knew  that  he  demanded 
that  I  must  pay  my  debt  before  I  could  come 
to  you.     I  see  this  as  clearly  as  I  saw  yesterday 
the  high  white  clouds  above  the  football  field. 
God  now  is  as  real  to  me  as  you  are.    It  is  as 
though  for  the  rest  of  my  life  I  must  live  in  a 
house  with  two   persons.    We  cannot  all  live  \ 
together  until  certain  conditions  are  granted.    I  / 


OLVA  AND  MAEGAEET  307 

/  go  to  make  those  conditions  possible.  Because 
I  have  broken  the  law  I  am  an  outlaw.  I  am 
impelled  to  win  my  way  back  to  citizenship  again. 
God  will  show  me." 

"  But  this  is  air — all  nerves.  God  is  nothing. 
God  does  not  exist." 

"  God  does  exist.  I  must  work  out  His  order 
and  then  I  will  come  back  to  you." 

She  began  to  be  frightened.  She  caught  his 
coat  in  her  hands,  and  desperately  pleaded. 
Then  she  saw  his  white  set  face,  and  the  way  that 
his  hands  gripped  the  chair,  and  it  was  as  though 
she  had  suddenly  found  herself  alone  in  the  room. 

"  Olva,  don't  leave  me,  don't  leave  me,  Olva. 
I  can't  live  without  you.  I  don't  care  what 
you've  done.  I'll  bear  everything  with  you. 
I'll  come  away  with  you.  I'll  do  anything  if 
only  you  will  let  me  be  with  you." 

**  No,  I  must  go  alone." 

"  But  it  can't  matter — it  can't  matter.  I'm 
so  unimportant.  You  shall  do  what  you  feel 
is  your  duty — only  let  me  be  there." 

"  No,  I  must  go  alone." 

She  began  to  cry,  bitter,  miserable,  sobbing, 
sitting  on  the  floor,  away  from  him.  Her  crying 
was  the  only  sound  in  the  room. 


308   THE  PRELUDE  TO  ADVENTURE 

He  bent  and  touched  her — "  Margaret  dear — 
you  make  it  so  hard." 

At  last,  in  that  strange  beautiful  way  that  she 
had,  control  seemed  suddenly  to  come  to  her  ;  she 
stood  up  and  looked  as  though  she  had,  in  that 
brief  moment,  lived  a  thousand  years  of  sorrow. 

"  You  will  come  back  T  " 

"  I  swear  that  I  will  come  back  to  you." 

"  I — I — will — wait  for  you." 

There,  in  the  dim,  unreal  room,  as  they  had 
stood  once  before,  now,  standing,  they  were 
wrapt  together.  They  were  very  young  to 
feel  such  depths  of  tragedy,  to  touch  such 
heights  of  beauty.  They  were  a  long  time 
there  together. 

"  Margaret  darling,  you  know  that  I  will  come 
back." 

"  I  know  that  you  will  come  back." 

"  Olva ! » 

"  Margaret ! " 

He  left  her. 

Then,  standing  with  outstretched  arms,  alone 
there,  she  who  had  but  now  denied  the  Pursuer, 
cried  to  the  dark  room — 

"  God,  God — send  him  back  to  me  I  " 

Some  one  promised  her. 


OHAPTEB    XVII 

FEBST  CHAPTER 

THE  sun  was   rising,    hard   and   red,    over 
Sannet  Wood  and  the  white  frozen  flats, 
when  Olva  Dune  set  out.  , 


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COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

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